Dear Friend Woolymama,
Please, please, for the love of God, do NOT tell my husband about your trip to Sam's Club in your newly acquired bus.
Please do not mention how there was ample room aboard for all your necessities, and still room left over for the kids. (What was that like?)
Whatever you do, please do not mention having room for a woodstove, along with all the groceries.
And do not let on that all of your purchases made it home dry, without aid of tarps which peel off on the highway and drag behind you, leaving shreds of their plastic selves for miles and miles.
The reason for my concern is that our vehicles are getting bigger and bigger. I keep saying 'He'll have me in an 18-wheeler before it's all over.'
Should he hear about this bus-thing, I'm done-for.
Just the fact that things are put 'aboard' will have his antennae perked up.
No good can come of this; no good, I tell you.
You can, however send over one of those incredible 'Breakfast Pies'. That would be well-received!
Dear friend Bella*,
I don't know how much longer I can go on calling you 'friend' when you so viciously fill your website with recipes, and worse, pictures of the cooked items. I mean, I thought we were amici, seeing as you cook in the same manner I do; grabbing readily available ingredients and throwing them together in simple ways that show off their best attributes. I liked that about you from the start.
But I see now that it was just a ploy to charm me under your spell. And now, when you make something I do not have the ingredients for...I'm a wreck. I can attribute at least 5 pounds of each thigh to you. (I don't have time to list the parties responsible for the other 482 pounds of each thigh.)
Sigh...those shrimp avocado sandwiches we ate all summer in my home made hot dog rolls....all your fault. Not mine, surely not mine.
And now you've sucked me into your It's-OK-To-Be-Obsessed-With-Nutella eating world, and all I can think about is home made pasta and how much more basil I will have to grow next year to keep up with our demands.
I have to go. I have some mushrooms that need to be cooked, and they are saying something about pesto and pizza they saw on your blog last night.
Trying hard not to resent you,and trying harder to avoid nutella right out of the jar,
*ps. I know your name is Paula, but to me you are, and will always be, Bella. Ciao, Bella!
My Dearest 'Manda,
I know you mean well, cooking and baking up a storm as you do. I know you probably can't help yourself, feeling the need to create wondrous meals each and every day, and luscious, innovative desserts. And I totally understand the compelling need to share that goodness with the world, believe me, I really do...
That's my problem.
Butt. The side effect of all this yummy stuff is my bee-hind. My pants would like to ask you to slow down, please. They are stretched to their maximum stretchitude, and are making an audible sigh of relief upon removal at the end of the day.
We implore you, please slow down. Like maybe two awesome recipes a week, that would be good. Because at the current rate there aren't enough days in the year to try all the good things you come up with, and I'm starting to cave under the pressure. Or expand, as the case may be.