Dream Killer

CG sits across from me as I blog. He has a small red bowl with sometime white, creamy, and slightly crunchy.

Mmmmmm, I think to myself. Ice Cream. Vanilla Bean. Granola. My mouth waters. Then, I get pouty 'cause he didn't offer me any. I decide to hint.

"Whatcha eatin'?"

"Potato salad."

Ohhh. Yuck. Okay, not yuck, especially since I made it, but still, when your imagination has already wandered to the idea of creamy, dense vanilla melting in one's mouth maybe with a sprinkling of nuts or granola (no raisins), the thought of week old tangy potato salad kills the dream. Peeved that my dairy day-dreams have been dashed, I counter back.

"Isn't that too old?"

"No."

Oh course not. CG, coming from a Polish household where I have personally witnessed raw bacon and hamburger being consumed and cookie dough (or was it pie crust? cheese? mystery white stuff in tupperware container?) stored in a refrigerator for three years, has a stomach of steel. Whereas if I even took another peep at that potato salad, I would be having shitcidences for weeks. Figures!

See, simulated below, if we were in CG's old country, CG would be in his element whilst this Irish lassie would have to cross her legs to keep the after effects of sausage, meat, cheese, and more sausage from poor unsuspecting victims:

p.s. In redemption, he did make me an excellent iced coffee today.

'lisciously scribed by Scout's Honor @ 5:00 AM