Stalker Food
A dinner date at home provides motive, means and opportunity if you know what I mean and I think you do.
My trade secret Stalker Food is Sicilian Meatballs. I had a carb and sausage (heh) craving last night so I whipped up a batch, and oh sister, they never disappoint.
(If you're thinking to yourself HEY! She never made ME Sicilian Meatballs! then you were an easy target which is always appreciated so don't go changing.)
I once had an idea to do a stalker cookbook, but when I polled for recipes, I discovered people either don’t how to cook, don’t have a favorite recipe or don’t use this particular MO. Robert's salmon stands out here because he caught it himself ("sashimi quality, baby") AND he cooked it magnificently on a pastel-pink stove without irony.
To my way of thinking, cooking = showing off, a winning element of any new relationship. But, it's also true that my compulsion to show off has significantly diminished over time because I figure if I plus a few cocktails don’t turn your crank, the hell with you anyway. So forget my previous premise. Cook the meatballs for yourself and call it self-stalking. Which is far more interesting.
My trade secret Stalker Food is Sicilian Meatballs. I had a carb and sausage (heh) craving last night so I whipped up a batch, and oh sister, they never disappoint.
(If you're thinking to yourself HEY! She never made ME Sicilian Meatballs! then you were an easy target which is always appreciated so don't go changing.)
I once had an idea to do a stalker cookbook, but when I polled for recipes, I discovered people either don’t how to cook, don’t have a favorite recipe or don’t use this particular MO. Robert's salmon stands out here because he caught it himself ("sashimi quality, baby") AND he cooked it magnificently on a pastel-pink stove without irony.
To my way of thinking, cooking = showing off, a winning element of any new relationship. But, it's also true that my compulsion to show off has significantly diminished over time because I figure if I plus a few cocktails don’t turn your crank, the hell with you anyway. So forget my previous premise. Cook the meatballs for yourself and call it self-stalking. Which is far more interesting.
Emily, who(m?) I love: call Taji, you wench. Don't make me stalk you... I too have Sicilian (Russian Jew) meatballs. They are less pleasant than yours, and will appear on your porch if you don't watch out.
luv luv luv!
Posted by
niko |
9:27 PM
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