Featuring black bean bread. Which, if you were to eat some, and if I didn't tell you, then you'd have no idea and no way of deducing what the heck it is. It tastes like ordinary bread except better and more interesting.
I thought it was just my mum, bless 'er, who made these Egg in a Holes, and just for me, and me alone. Because I am so special. I held it as a private thing between me and her, and that's why I love them and cherish the memory. Come to find out, they're also known as Egg in a Basket, and Toad in a Hole. Shit. Another perfectly wonderful delusion down the tubes. You know what? I'm getting a little bit sick and tired of having my favorite splendid little childish illusions stomped on by reality. One by one at this pace eventually there will be none left. I still haven't fully recovered from the one about Audubon shooting all those birds, stuffing them, and then painting them. I find I cannot quite forgive the man who rudely informed me Audubon did not paint all those birds from memory. Bastard.
It looks like I used up my sweary-word quotent quotient quota allotment for the whole day. If I keep on God is going to kick my ass.
With a baked pork chop from here.
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