Road Trip Edition: But I forgot my instant-read thermometer

Disappointment compounding on disappointment:  Not only is the world’s largest, oldest cured ham off limits on Mondays BUT the Bob’s Big Boys in the rest stops along I-95 in Maryland no longer have breakfast buffets –  they’ve restructured the rest stop to make room for some bullshit seafood restaurant, like we’re all stopping at the Maryland House to refill the tank, take a shit and grab some nice dover sole with rice pilaf.

Where are my powdered eggs? My biscuits with chipped beef in gravy? My unlimited bacon? My scrapple, that I don’t actually eat but find endlessly fascinating?  I DEMAND ALL THE FRENCH TOAST STICKS I CAN EAT.

Goddamn it.

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Two bits of distressing pork-related news.

Distressing News the First: Plans to visit the world’s oldest, largest cured ham in Smithfield, Virginia must be aborted.  We’re driving down to North Carolina to spend the holiday with my sister, and the ham – cured in 1902 from a 900 POUND PIG and STILL EDIBLE if you scrape off the not-inconsiderable mold layer, a claim which I am willing to take on faith – is en route.  The museum containing it, however, is closed on Mondays.  FAIL.

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Thursday Night Smackdown: I'm a grown up and I do what I want

And that includes eating Sticky Toffee Pudding for dinner. Which I just did, and I could not possibly be less sorry. In fact, I’m feeling so magnanimous after eating it that I’m willing to overlook the ridiculous length of this book’s title AND the fact that (as listed on Amazon) it has TWO COLONS: Desserts by the Yard: From Brooklyn to Beverly Hills: Recipes from the Sweetest Life Ever, by Sherry Yard (GET IT?), official pastry chef of Wolfgang Puck’s Spago empire.

I Wonder: Are all the colons necessary?: A grammatical conundrum: That I can top: Suck on that.

Wow, when you exaggerate it like that it almost becomes poetry. Really terrible poetry.

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