Caring may be creepy…

… but so are my kids.

You know what I think is funny? When women (or men, I suppose) talk about their good such-and-such food dish. Like “Oh, come on over tomorrow. I’m making my good Greek lasange.” I mean, what is the implication? “I won’t make my lukewarm, stray cat-hair-in-the-pan, BiMart-ingredients Greek lasagne. No, I’ll make you my good one.” It’s also funny that women (or men, I suppose) who say this are likely to call the dish by some silly name striking illusions of culinary grandeur: “Impossible Cheeseburger Pie” or “Knock-You-Naked Brownies” (I didn’t make that up!) or such nonsense.

The dish in question which I of course made a good version of tonight and named it according to abovementioned custom (and with the help of my family) is “my good Sunrise Chicken” (Sophie calls it “Dinosaur Chicken”, but I find that frankly unappetizing). If you’re noticing we’re having chicken thighs a lot, yeah, you’re right. That, and ground beef, and if I find a stray possum on Highway 20 now and then, it goes in the stew pot too.

My “children” over the past few days.

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