sunday seven

I am not admitting which story this is from:

"Hey, LB, may I ask an invasive question?"

"Chaton, the only secrets I'm keeping from you anymore are things you don't want to know anyway." Hey, he resents that. Marinette's tone shifts from tired to tiredly amused: "Like what's in that brightly wrapped package in my trunk with your name on it."

"Oh." Which name? —Never mind.

do not be me, y'all (or, an adventure in recipe adaptation)

two nights ago at twelve-thirty in the morning, I had the bright idea of making Grandma's meatballs, presented there as transcribed and annotated from the original faded cursive index card by my mother. only as a meat sauce, bc rolling meatballs is annoying.

here is how I did it:

( it is not Grandma's meatballs )

…

you will observe this left behind all pretense of having anything to do with Grandma's meatballs before I even got the meat on the heat

you will also observe nobody but me wants any—or rather, I knew azurelunatic wasn't going to have any, and I'm trying to remember if there's anything on that ingredients list silveradept isn't going to eat; at any rate it doesn't look like they've eaten any—and I started with like two pounds of beef, okay, it is delicious but there is too much of this for just me!

ETA: it is good pizza sauce, if possibly too much for the pizza crust