I’m at my aunt and uncle’s place on Bowen Island for a week, taking care of these bad babies.
They have all this food growing in their yard (that is, my aunt and uncle do). I’ve just been wandering around all day stuffing my face. The best are the plums, but even the lettuce tastes ridiculously good. I so hear you, flopsy bunnies. I so hear you.
These weren’t grown here, but apparently they’re some kind of weird, prickly cucumber.
Oh man. My sister made the best pie ever created by the smooth and practiced hands of man or woman. I ate about two thirds of it, all in one day. I wish my sister was a souless kitchen drudge who lived in my closet, and baked me things constantly. Like in the Dark Crystal, that machine that sucks out the life from the darling innocent puppet people, leaving them haggard willing slaves. I want that to happen to my sister.
I also had a store-bought cornish pastie, just to roll onward with the pastry theme of my life, but it tasted like dust by comparison.