Smithereens are just small smithers. They don’t have to fly through the air like confetti though.
You know Scout, there’s the way I liketo grill cheese and then the way I usually do.
In a more perfect world, I like to take two slices of good sourdough bread and then some cheeses. Sharp chedar and provalone are good together. Or some Montery Jack cheese too. Shred it all up and throw it in a plastic bag and shake it around some to mix the cheeses all up together. (While you’re shredding and shaking, the griddle can be heating up on the stove. You don’t have to multi-task like that, but it speeds things up some.) Butter one side each of the bread and then plop one of the breads onto the hot griddle (or pan if that’s what you got) and layer the cheese on covered by the other bread. Toast one side and flip. A little tomato in there is good too. Not like one little tiny tomato, but a slice of a bigger tomato, but just some, not like a huge hunk. And bacon. Everything’s better with bacon.
Well, not everythingeverything, but most things you eat.
Now, in this somewhat less than perfect world, I just slap some butter of a couple of slices of Wonder bread and use a couple of cheese singles. It’s not the same, but it’s not so different you don’t know what you’re eating.
But no tomato soup, thank you. I don’t like tomato soup with my grilled cheese sandwich. Even if it is a tradition with some people.
You funny Ex. You make me laugh. Bah-ha! Like that.
-Rue.
Well, that’s just wrong. It’s pronounced “Awlb’ny,” and I oughta’ know, because I live here. Not in the weak-sister Georgia version, either. Nor the weak-sister Maine version. Nor the seven hundred and twenty other ones. I think there’s one in Montana, even. That’s one of those rectangular states. We’ve got an actual State Capital going here, so I would really appreciate a little effort on your part to at least get the name right. Maybe they don’t teach proper manners down in Leesburg.
This is, of course, the Food of Satan.
I hate you.
Ah, sarcasm. I’ve been here a while, buddy. I’m starting to learn the ropes.
On the other hand, I just got back from a company-paid-for pub night, so I can’t feel my sore throat through the alcohol and the burn of the hot wings. Could be worse.
I was going to say that the Dutch seemed to stumble over a creek every five minutes and found a town on the site, until I ran out of -kill names. But, that was just off the top of my head. Show up for the Tulip Festival, then I’ll really be embarassed.
No, don’t bother to answer. I couldn’t bear any more hatred. Not that being loved by one and all is that big a deal. Really. You’re just a name on a message board. For all I know, you’re a 22 y/o nymphomaniac model who’s despondent because you can’t be a cool aerospace structural engineer working for the Department of the Navy as I do, hence your bitter attack. So I’m certainly not going to take it personally…
Or maybe you were just being bitter? About the cold? Hence the term, bitter cold??
So you’re a rocket scientist?!? Actually I knew that from your profile. How does it feel to have a job that’s the epitome of intelligence?
I’m a structural draftsman. Oh, and a domestic engineer (Means I don’t get paid squat for cleaning up squat.) Somehow those don’t have quite the ring to them as “rocket scientist” though.
Sarcasm Ex? That hurts. I was being genuine and heart-felt there and you accuse me of “sarcasm”. Fine. If that’s the way you feel. Just, fine.
I think you’ve got something there Lissla. First the alcohol to kill germs, then to be extra-special sure the chicken soup. Got things covered both ways there. Pretty smart of you.
Hmmm… since somepeople don’t like the “what I had for lunch” hijack, maybe we should start a new one. Hijack the hijack maybe. But I got nothing, so whatever you want to talk about is pretty much fair game.
Which reminds me…
This guy (So you know it’s a joke. Jokes start with “this guy”.) went hunting and he stumbled onto a beautifull clearing in the forest. In the clearing was a beautifull woman. And she was naked. He couldn’t believe his luck.
He went up to the beautifull naked woman and asked her “Uhh… are you… game?”
And she said “Oh yeah, big boy!”
Wallking Soupo to school today, we passed an olld tree. In that olld tree, there was a woodpecker, just pecking away. Peck, peck, peck, peck. Llike that.
Katcha thought it was neat.
-Rue. (of the superfluous ll’s)
At least my cat hasn’t caught your cold. Oh, no, we’re playing the fun game “Wait till human is walking across apartment, then run full speed into their ankles, expecting them to swerve out of the way only they don’t.”
It’s not fun, Bailey. Really it isn’t. And you are not a brave hunter kitty, either.
um, not quite. I work on airplanes. Old airplanes. Old Navy airplanes. More specifically, the landing gear of old Navy airplanes.
I built a rocket in 9th grade, tho. In Mr. McGuire’s class. We did lots of neat things in his class - like throwing eggs and taking apart lawnmower engines and driving a go-cart. But the rocket part was fun - after we built them, we launched them in the athletic field.
I’ve seen rockets at the Smithsonian, too. Took pictures of them and everything. And if there’s a shuttle launch at night, I can see it from the desk in my house. But I don’t think any of that makes me a rocket scientist.
The preceeding non-lunch hijack is presented for your consideration.
<sniff sniff> Was it something I said?