I was all set to knock out a post whining about trying to get my Covid vaccination. I am registered on 4 different websites, but have no idea when, or if, I’m going to get my shot. But then I reminded myself that we are all in the same frustrating boat and my complaining will not make any of it any better. Instead I decided to talk about food, a subject about which I am enthusiastically all for.
Spending all my time at home, alone except for a cranky old cat (who I now realize is deaf and not just ignoring me like he used to) I have become more aware of my odd habit of becoming obsessed with a particular snack to the exclusion of all others until I get tired of whatever I have been plowing my way through. I know some people trapped by the lockdown have turned to seriously developing their cooking skills with stuff like Goat Cheese Polenta or pates that take three weeks to prepare, but my passions tend more towards the gustatory refinement of a pre-schooler. If it’s bland, I’m wild for it. Over the last year, I have been devoted to instant oatmeal (the kind with tiny little scraps of dried apples,) butterscotch instant pudding, cottage cheese, applesauce, applesauce in cottage cheese, and most recently, sandwich sliced cheddar cheese on saltines.
Part of the appeal of my white trash cheese and crackers charcuterie board was my discovery that folding the slice of cheese in half and then half again and breaking it along the folds creates 4 little cheese pieces exactly the right size to fit on a cracker. Obviously, god was guiding my hand here. Even better was the discovery that they were perfect for stacking into snack towers.
The ideal food for the OCD among us.
So I’ve featured this guy before as a favor for Mikey and then there has always been a lot of squealing from the comments section. Turns out his name is Anthony Varrecchia. Commence squeals.
“I’m a lumberjack and I’m okay….”
I think this photo has graced my blog before, but who’s complaining?
I’m just digging those shades.
To waiters, the phrase “In the weeds” means you’re behind, the chef is insane, your section is the only one populated entirely by screaming children, and maybe you should reconsider prostitution as a source of employment.
A magical evening in the R.V. of love.
Some big guy for mikey.