We ran errands this morning, so we did not get to the gym until after 9:00am.
A bad thing that, as more people were there than when we normally go. As my readers know, me+people=unhappy. Still, I managed to do my sets without cursing anyone out, and we headed home, getting back a bit after 11:00am.
Too late for breakfast, and near lunch . . . hmm . . . what to do?
Readers might not know this, but I am not a cook. I can make pasta, rice, eggs, french toast, prepare a bowl of cereal, and the like. I’m standing there in front of the open fridge, and I’m looking at the leftover pasta with butter. Then I look at the eggs.
What to do? If you ever find yourself in the same situation, grab the skillet, some olive oil, cut up some Canadian Bacon, and toss the pasta and bacon in the skillet.
As I sat there mixing the pasta and bacon on low heat, and listened to it beginning to sizzle, I had a thought . . .
Well, you can’t have eggs without shredded mozzarella, salt, and some pepper.
I turned the heat slightly up, and started to blend the ingredients as they cooked.
Once I was satisfied the eggs were done and cheese was melted, I poured the mixture into a plate.
Proud of myself for having invented a new dish, I called Melisa over to taste my creation, and have her share in the Disperser developed dish. She grabbed two pieces of pasta as I awaited her verdict (she’s the cook).
“That’s like pasta carbonara. It tastes good.”
The words hit me, and hit me hard! Here I thought I had come up with something original, but once again the curse of being born 100,000 years after the first humans strikes . . . pretty much anything one can think up has already been thunk up by people who came before. Bastards!
With a heavy heart, I sat and started in on my brunch (Melisa only tasted it, the rest was mine, and mine alone). . . you know what? As I ate it, I concluded that I don’t care; this was my dish, my idea. I’m still feeling proud about my brief moment as an experimenting cook. And the dish was damn tasty, too!
That’s it. This post has ended . . . except for the stuff below.
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. . . my FP ward . . . chieken shit.