Heart - The other white meat.

Oh look, a post about relationships. Mine out of all of them. Good grief. I felt the need to express my inner romantic because without him, my passion for food would be uneventful. Almost like having sex with a lumberjack. He'll just kill you and you know it. Now I do believe in certain things that must be a staple to find in a woman, and food is one of them. If she doesn't eat, she's not for me. I want to find someone who'll order quail when we go out, instead of the 'seafood' surprise. I'm not saying she has to be upper class or snobby, but goddammit she better be ready to try different things otherwise I'm going to shit on her chest with an array of flavors never heard of before. Women are confusing.

When life gives you lemons, use a laser gun and shoot the zombie in the fucking balls.

I freaking LOVE video games. It's the next step for me from cooking. My other half. If I could turn a video game into a delectable pastry, I would. Then I would induce vomiting and proceed to playing said video game. I think sometimes, when I lose all will to do anything else, I just pop in a VG and just go at it like a rabid horse. It's just as if I was reading a gripping novel, or violating a catholic nun. I didn't do the latter, but that got your attention didn't it? You sick bastards. As I usually say, I need to cook. It's my life and passion, my getaway, my mecca. Video games are like my mistress. When I feel bored of cooking ( yeah it happens to all of us, don't gasp), I simply turn my TV on and shoot me some Nazis. Nothing feels better than looking at Hitler in a Robotic suit, and blasting his sinful ass straight down to video game hell.

Quit it. No really. Stop. Okay fine but not there, I just shaved.

Bitches and hoes, my father always said. Actually he never said anything of the sort, and if he read this I would probably be eating my food with a straw. I actually brought you here to tell you some more about my culinary influences when I was a child. And my very first blo-never mind. As I said in my previous post, I loved being around my mom in the kitchen. It was an aura I felt like no other. Something holy and otherworldly that made me feel like there was magic in this world. She continued to teach me that without love, food would taste terrible. It would just be food and you would eat it for survival only. I mean, I'm sure cavemen had kick ass times killing dinosaurs for food, but that was in the 1900's. We live in the 40th century now, with flying cars and talking horses.

The day I shat bricks.

A wise man once told me, "Don't touch that." He was referring to my penis, and I was furious and outraged with the containment I had to endure. I was 8 years old, a budding male soon to experience something outlandish to my normal daily routine. Did you just say poutine? Anyways. I was helping my momma in the kitchen and we were preparing ourselves for a busy get together. Family coming over and the sort. I was ecstatic, except for my cheeks, which were about to face the dreaded pinch and grab. My mother however, maintained her cool and just kept handling food like it was her bitch.