Take one butternut squash. They're ugly, I know. They look like the decapitated -- and also featureless -- head of Charlie Brown's dog, Snoopy. Did I need to say that first part? "Charlie Brown's dog?" You already know who Snoopy is, don't you? You presumably haven't been living under a lichen-encrusted rock somewhere.
You are now going to make beef stew. With short ribs. Don't argue with me. We don't have time for your mewling pleas and jibbering jabbers. The Devil and his consort will be here soon. For dinner. And they expect to be fed, by golly. What are you going to tell him? Are you going to look jolly ol' Lucifer in the eye and say, "Hey, sorry, Lucy old chap, I was too busy?"
It's time for another NSFW recipe. This time: sausage, apples and pasta in brown butter sauce. It's delicious. I mean, it'll fucking kill you. You'll eat this and a great big cholesterol-laden ball will lodge in your heart and you'll seize up but fuck it, you'll gurgle and coo happily while perishing. Ready? OPEN YOUR MOUTH AND YOUR MIND.
I will now make love to your mouth. Uhh. Let’s try that again: Let my meat make love to your mouth. Hrm. Okay, forget all that, what I’m trying to say is, I’m going to give you now three recipes, and these three recipes will comprise your dinner at some point this week. Trust me, you’ll do it. You’ll do it, and you’ll like it. You’ll like it so much, you will give me money. And a gift basket. A gift basket of hookers. Because that’s how good these recipes... Read The Rest →
*slides glass of whiskey over* There. That one's on the house. Fact: writers drink. Every writer drinks. Total boozemonkeys to the last. Sure, you say, "But I don't drink," except, you probably do. You don't drink, then you might not be a real writer. Being a real writer isn't about how much you write in a day or how many books you've published. It's about how big your liver is.