My mother makes possibly the world’s worst pancakes. Really, she’ll cop to it herself. They are like sponges that suck up any syrup that touches them. Honestly O-cel-o should be clamoring for the secret to their absorbency. Oh and they were often burnt on at least one side. By the time I was 8, weRead more
After college I moved to New York with my faux bro. He wanted to live in Chelsea (of course, don’t all gay New York men?) so I found us an apartment on 25th street. We lived in a two bedroom railroad apartment that required you to walk through the kitchen to get to the bathroom at the other end. This was a source of hilarity for pretty much every visitor but it was perfectly normal to New Yorkers.
My husband loves biscotti. Every time we see it on a menu the conversation is the same. “Ooh, biscotti!” And I reply by wrinkling my nose. For years, he has refused to accept that I simply do not want such a delicious treat. It’s absolutely impossible in his mind. And to be fair, I can understand his denial.
