I want to limit my prep time to pulling a tab or two, hitting the remote, and feeling the pure electric surge of saturated animal fat assaulting my prefrontal cortex. Buying a steak (raw?!), manually baking a potato, an'all taht sound like they're on the far side of my decidely miserly effort budget.
The bottle of wine would interact unfavorably with my migraine pill.
Ooooh. And I won't do much Swayze action becaise the ******* CD player is on the fritz. It skips and hiccups, which when I'm trying to get into the mellifluous melancholy of a Shostakovich violin concerto is a major mood dampener.
Eeyup, it's Wings, a jheezeburger, my tattered copy of Trinity and Beyond, and maybe a stout snort of Bushmills.
But I want to redeem myself a little and tell you that yesterday I BBQed a steelhead filet, made new potatoes in parsley, and cleaned the grill after. Later this week I plan on making an honestogawd Bearnaise from scratch, one of my culinary set pieces. I'll use it to mask the Frozen Mixed Veggies, a grudging sop to my gallbladder. |
