Saturday night, 10 p.m., something sweet:

One frozen banana, half a fresh one, lots of plain, organic yogourt, a little almond milk and a pinch of nutmeg.

I thought for a moment that I could drink it in a controlled, mindful, sanctimonious-vegetarian kind of way, but I ended up throwing it back like a freshman with a plastic mug full of Purple Jesus.

We ate lunch in the dark today, the baby and me. It was too hot for lights. We could only stare thickly out the window as we chewed our cold tomato sandwiches, like Brick and Maggie in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, doing our very best smolders.

I was mostly replaying last night’s supper, which Wayne took all of the leftovers from on his way to work this morning – the remnants of an impromptu Monday-night dinner party. We scored some top-notch house guests in the early evening, and due to the heat I planned to barbecue sweet, giant shrimp and serve them with an awesome cold side that Gelstein taught me: a salad of avocado, mango, green onion, salt and lime juice.

However, my menu was dashed at the No Frills, where the shrimp were puny and worm-like, the avocados were hard and green, and the mangoes were no better. It was the sad truth. And as a 26-year-old Liz Taylor opined as Tennessee’s Maggie Pollitt, “The truth is as dirty as lies.” Over to Plan B:

Rainbow trout barbecued perfectly by Wayne the pescatarian, which he marinates with a clean, tasty topping of green onion, lemon, salt and pepper (he probably snuck a little butter in there too):

Corn on the cob (boiled on the barbecue’s side burner. No way was the oven coming alive in my furnace-hot kitchen):

And a deconstructed creamy Caesar salad, with the yummiest yogourt-based dressing I discovered recently on Epicurious.com. The recipe doesn’t even call for oil, but it’s gregarious as anything, built on anchovy paste, garlic, lemon and parmiggiano.

I love serving it this way; everyone can dress it on their own plate with as much or as little dressing and as many croutons as they like.

We ate in front of the fan. All the guests said the dressing was as good as any mayo-ey version they’d ever had. There was cold beer and prosecco to do what the fan couldn’t. One small victory for the hot-roof crowd.

On Tuesday night, Wayne was out doing beer-soaked pop-a-wheelies with a friend turning 40; the baby and I were flying solo for supper.

I had some thrillingly thin butterflied turkey breast on hand and it barbecued itself in two minutes flat. I chopped some up onto Booboo’s tray along with little pieces of cocktail tomatoes, little slices of delicious Rowe Farm ham, and torn up pieces of whole-wheat. In a slightly serial-killer style that I’ve adopted, I arranged it all on his tray in a perfectly straight line, looked down and realized, Dio buono, that’s a frigging clubhouse sandwich. The secret of my own dinner was instantly revealed.

I grabbed a soft white Italian bun and mayonnaised it, then layed it with the thrillingly thin grilled turkey breast, the Rowe Farm ham, juicy red tomato slices with salt and pepper, and a big handful of arugula.

It was the kind of clubhouse I’d serve if Carlo Gambino stopped by – really, a clubhouse sangwich. No meddlesome side salad, nothing. Just one giant sangwich, hammily satisfying in that high-on-the-food-chain way.

Drop by tomorrow and I’ll tell you about the amazing dessert I chased it with: my all-time favourite there’s-nothing-for-dessert-but-wait!-this-is-dessert! dessert. It’s a making-an-over-the-top-sugar-hit-out-of-nothing-at-all dessert, worthy of every single hyphen.

After carting home my 700th little container of Stephano’s (exemplary) hemp granola for $6 a pop, I was done feeling like a chump: It was time to start making my own from scratch after blabbing about it all these months.

It wasn’t just the price – knowing full well what a bag of oats costs. Or the little plastic box, destined straight for the recycling bin (and China after that). It was also my pride; surely to god I should be able to execute a pantry staple with all of five basic ingredients.

I got my hands on a big bag of oats and narrowed down the recipes. In the end, I chose one from juicy ol’ Nigella Lawson, because her ingredient list was very low on the oil, unlike many of the others.

I also loved that it contained applesauce, giving me an excuse to cut out most of the rest of the sugar.

These are the liberties I took: Instead of one-quarter cup of honey, I used maple syrup, which I thought would spread more easily. And I threw in a few handfuls of (sweetened) coconut, because how could I not. But aside from that, I used unsweetened applesauce and completely omitted the one-third cup of rice syrup (whatever that is) and the three-quarters cup of sugar she called for, and still found it plenty sweet.

Funny thing: It was five times more delicious when it was raw:

I could taste the natural sweetness of the apple, the bite of kosher salt, the full roundness of the cinnamon. But once it came out of the oven at the halfway point, the granola was already too brown for my liking and so much of the flavour had been singed away. I would bake this for half the time Nigella recommends (20 minutes, to her 40. Here it is halfway through baking, plenty brown enough).

Granted, I didn’t use two cookie sheets, because I don’t have two cookie sheets (ludicrous!). I used one sheet and put half the mixture on it, then baked the second half when the first was done. Perhaps having two sheets in the oven, which you rotate, buffers the granola from the full force of the heat? Non lo so. I put that out to the seasoned bakers to riddle for me.

A final note: In my research, I discovered that the buzzword among the homemade-granola nerds is “clumping” – that is, getting your granola to emerge from the oven in chunks so that it can be easily eaten in a pick-it-up-and-snack-on-it way.

I too love the clumps, and since I didn’t have wheat germ on hand (which is what many granola nerds employ to get clumping), I used the press-the-mixture-down-in-the-pan-with-the-back-of-a-big-spoon-or-fish-spatula-before-baking method. Appraisal of method: unsatisfactory. Quest for clumping: Burning in my bosom. Next time I’ll add the wheat germ.

All in all, I’m enjoying my granola well enough. It’s full of almonds, which staves off my craving for a second breakfast. But it isn’t knocking my socks off. And I have three giant jars of it (you can see here the difference in colour between the batch that I cooked longer than the other):

Once I’ve made my way through all of it, I’ll try a new recipe in my quest for granola that’s as good as Stephano’s – which I suspect is as much about method as ingredients. In the meanwhile, if you want to take a jar of substandard granola off my hands to expedite the continuation of the granola sessions, show yourself.

The sparrows in the Tree of Heaven in my backyard are tweeting like something out of Disney central casting, and the sky has that big, high-summer look that makes you feel like a teenager on a lake with a head full of music every time you look up.  I can honestly report that the only thing I miss about being at the office these days (aside from my stellar workmates) is the Cobb salad from Le Gourmand, dressing on the side.

I made one for dinner this week, after craving it for days. I blame the outsized craving on Wayne, who brought home a giant tub of Turtle ice cream (possibly also inspired by the high-summer times). We started eating one disgustingly sweet cone apiece, every night after supper.

These fat bombs have made my palate crave more of the same.

No salad but a Cobb salad could possibly do the trick. In addition to roast chicken or turkey, it contains avocado, blue cheese, hard-boiled egg, tomatoes, green onion and bacon.

Excuse me, but avocado, blue cheese and bacon all in one sitting – that’s what I call a fries-and-gravy salad. It was the only salad that could possibly tide me over till morning sans Turtle ice cream.

I boiled the eggs while I chopped up the veg – everything but the tomato. I simply lacked the will.

Then – the exciting part – I made the dressing based on the original recipe from The Brown Derby restaurant in Hollywood, California, where the first Cobb was conceived in 1937 by the Derby’s owner, Bob Cobb. (Swear to god.)

It’s an oil-and-vinegar dressing, but quite different from my standard Italian go-to. It turns out the distinctive flavour comes from worchestershire, sugar, and a little bit of lemon (who puts lemon in an oil-and-vinegar dressing?). The taste is absolutely diner.

The recipe above makes a jar full, which I was greatly pleased by, paving the path, as it tends to when the dressing’s already made and sitting in the fridge, to extensive salad-eating this week.

There was one non-standard addition: a substitute for the bacon for Wayne the vegetarian. I Googled to see what the other crazy vegetarians are doing for a salt-fat-umami hit and it turns out they’re frying provolone! Well done, crazy vegetarians.

The Frills was out of provolone so we used mozzarella, which was definitely too melty. We don’t own anything non-stick (as per the c.v.’s instructions), so Wayne fried it in an ungodly amount of oil. It turned out looking like an edible shadow puppet. Gormless horse:

Still, broken up, it delivered a whallopping salt-fat-umami kick.

You can see why, visually, it would have been a good idea to summon the will to chop the tomatoes:

In any case, a delicious, rib-sticking salad, best eaten outdoors while looking up.

Today under a tree in the park in the middle of the afternoon, I ate perfect lime shortbread and chocolate macaroons with the lovely JP and her sweet big baby. She came bearing not only her sweet big baby and that wicked brown bag of cookies (from Espresso Mi Vida. Dynamite flour-and-sugar skills) but enough supper ideas to keep me blogging till June.

It was tough to pick from all the novel, fantastically-outside-of-my-current-repertoire, light-on-the-meat, heavy-on-the-legumes, just-right-for-sunny-weather suggestions she fired off.

In the end, I came straight home and tried my hand at her easy instructions for Sushi in a Bowl. It’s the definition of a pantry supper, and eminently adaptable. All I needed to pick up was shrimp.

I boiled brown rice with a couple of teaspoons of bouillon and a little nub of butter. While it cooked, I shredded a carrot. It tasted like dirt, so I tossed it with oil and rice vinegar – much better. Then I cut a pickling cucumber into a small dice; thinly sliced five or six green onions; cubed an avocado; and shredded a zucchini (it’s so palatable raw that way) and gave it a light sprinkle of soy. Six minutes of chopping, max.

I set out the soy, sesame seeds and sesame oil

and cut nori into matchsticks with my handy kitchen scissors

while Wayne went outside and barbecued some big, fat shrimp (which he’d doused in a wacky yet delicious marinade of olive oil, black pepper, hot sauce, soy sauce, maple syrup and crazy old champagne from the ’70s that had tragically turned to vinegar.)

They cooked in five minutes and we built our gorgeous bowls. We started with a big scoop of rice and drizzled it with soy and sesame oil.

Then in went the veg, the sesame seeds

and then the shrimp, a little more soy sauce, and a flutter of nori for garnish.

Nice!

It tasted like the world’s biggest, most satisfying, most super-deluxe California Roll ever.

The normally understated Wayne (who clearly reserves his excesses for marinades) pronounced these not only good but “very good.”

We’ll be eating these by the dozens till sweater weather, guaranteed.

My mother-in-law, Gene, is a Raisin Avenger, just like me. This afternoon, while the baby slept, she and I made a fridge-filling number of Norm’s Big-Batch Bran Muffins, and we benevolently offered to omit the raisins for our beloved anomaly, the resident Raisin Hater, Wayne. He demurred by squinting his eyes, then clarified: “I don’t really like bran muffins.”

What?

Had he always not liked them? Even all those times over all these years when I messily split the giant vat of batter into separate bowls to make his half without raisins? When I cut up old envelopes to make darling little Raisin-Free labels for his divvy, so that his delicate palate would not accidentally stumble upon an offending raisin?

Doesn’t like the texture, he said. Never has.

I harrumphed while Gene grabbed the big measuring cup. Then, gleefully, we poured almost three cups of raisins into the mixing bowl.

The muffins were stunners:

Gene and I ate one each after supper. We raved about them to one another. When I offered one to Wayne and said things like, “You don’t know what you’re missing,” and “Sometimes I think you dislike raisins just to be strong on me,” he shot me down with inspecific Wayne noises.

The baby was put to bed. The sky darkened. I noticed a grumpy look on Wayne’s face as he brought his snack into the den – a gargantuan orange. I offered a muffin for the final time and he just ignored me.

And yet. Not 10 minutes ago, after we’d packed ourselves up to go to bed, I made an unplanned detour through the kitchen to find my notebook and I stumbled upon this (warning to Raisin Haters: what you are about to see will destabilize you). I grabbed my camera and screamed to Gene.

Caught, bastardo! Eating my texturally inferior raisin bran-muffin and loving it so freaking badly that there was raisin shrapnel everywhere. Picked out and spat out, but still – plowing through that muffin like a starved POW. How’s that for a compliment.

“I need to see the baby,” my sister opined.

“You have to book me, Janstein,” I told her. “I’m busy every day this week. The people book me.”

So she said, “Dinner. Tomorrow night,” and I was on the bus. A home-cooked meal that you didn’t have to cook yourself is heaven. Sometimes, the quintessence of supper is other people.

I have never been sorrier not to have my camera at a meal with me. Bright yellow Formica tabletop, white wine in short glasses with birds of the forest on them, three delicious children animated by energetic dramaturgy, roasted asparagus, a big bowl of pasta con vongole, breaded fish from the churrasqueira at the bottom of the street, and an old-school salad to follow – romaine, cuke, celery, carrot. No goddamn frippery. Perfection!

Dessert was leftover chelsea buns from Easter brunch, made by my niece and my mother, chocolate ice cream, decaf espresso.

It was a great simple supper, a good reminder for me that entertaining is an adjective as well as a verb – that’s it’s easy and doesn’t take elaborate preparation (says the party who did nothing. But you know what I mean). It came together fast and there was nothing out of the ordinary about it and yet I’ll always remember it: the skinniest, daintiest carrot sticks my sister sliced for my ten-year-old niece, propped up in a pretty cup to be appealing, the salt pinched from a little green glass dish, the silver candlesticks Janstein set out, commenting that one had once been used to knock someone over the head with (it was quite bent). That my audacious brother-in-law could tell me (after an aquafit story) that the last thing I look like is a professional swimmer – and evoke no significant fallout. (None. How is it that even possible?). Taking everyone exactly as they are and eating it up.

Coming up next: I’m delighted to announce that my mum-in-law will be on our doorstep in the morning, all the way from South Branch, Newfoundland. This is a woman who can cook for a crowd. She doesn’t bat an eye at feeding 100-plus people at the South Branch Social Club (tends a pretty mean bar, too). She feeds us like kings every Christmas, so there will be serious action in my kitchen over the next few weeks in order to reciprocate. I’ll be trying to impress her with my Italian chops while she holds/chases the baby, and I hope to talk her into teaching us her secret to the world’s best fishcakes. Stay tuned.

Dear reader: The vegetable bolognese I left you with was the height of my cooking escapades last month. It was mostly takeout and Oetker’s frozen pizza in the distracted weeks following my canning and leading up to a seven-day all-inclusive all-you-can-eat-a-thon in Puerto Aventuras, Mexico, from which we just returned.

Before our departure, we weren’t in a good place, food wise. We had skipped our spring cleanse. We were not in control. As Wayne puts it, looking back, we were on a slippery slope that was leading us dangerously into Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas territory, but the drugs were fat, salt and sugar.

So, what happens when you take a woman on this path –  a woman who never feels full – to the land of All You Can Eat?

I’ll tell you what happens.

Chilaquiles happen. At every opportunity possible.

Here they are (top centre) on my breakfast dish:

You can barely make them out, because I was forced to use Wayne’s nauseatingly idiosyncratic camera while I was away, as mine is still on the fritz from baby-spit damage.

But the chilaquiles – dense little triangles of corn tortilla that are perfectly softened after getting baked in a red (sometimes green) sauce and sprinkled in queso fresco. It’s amazing how smug you can be when you’re piling fried things onto your giant plate at the breakfast buffet: “Take that, Guys in the Hash Brown Line with your bacon and your ketchup. I’m eating Mexican. I’m eating chilaquiles.” Ever so many chilaquiles.

The buffet at our massive but beautiful resort was miles long. The food was very good. We ate three plates full at every meal, three meals a day for the first few days.

Wayne was the first to fall, into a pit of wicked heartburn on day three. Lightweight. Granted, it first came on at 35 feet below the surface of the ocean on a scuba dive. (“It felt like I was going to throw up into my breathing apparatus,” he told me.) We sought out little pink Pepto-Bismol tablets for him in the gift shop back at the hotel. Wayne says they were basically the modern pill form of the Roman Vomitorium. Full? Take one and keep on eating!

Still, he made a disciplined move: He downgraded to the dessert-sized plate at the buffet, much smaller than a sandwich plate, and effectively cut his food intake on our holiday down by a sixth.

I carried on heartily, with eggs covered in salsa fresca; french toast with not-quite-maple syrup; little tostadas stuffed with cheese and whatever tasty meat appeared under it; churros stacked with black beans and spicy sausagey something, melted cheese, cilantro and onion; piles of super-sweet cantaloupe and watermelon; bowls of Mayan hot chocolate; little sweets – just one, or two – like small round white  sugar cookies or a tiny pain au chocolat to finish things off with my decaf con leche.

And that was just breakfast.

For lunch, there were mountains of shrimp quesadillas (that everyone seemed to be passing up to get into the hamburger line. Why!). There were always delicious fried bits of grouper (a fish I have long disparaged till this trip, upon which I found it to be more delicate than sole. Where the heck was my leaden grouper coming from all these years?). And cheesy, creamy tortellini, and sweet jicama salad sprinkled with spicy chili powder. And all kinds of great salads made from cactus (nopal), which is apparently “good for man” and very much loved by Wayne.

By supper on day five, I felt a strange sensation – fullness? I downgraded to the Wayne plate. It was time.

No matter the size of your plate, the funny thing about the buffet is always the final plateful of food you eat – ostensibly the dessert course, but 95 percent of the time it is sneakily half-loaded with whatever was best, or whatever you told yourself nobly that you’d pass on. (Ha.) Take one peek at anyone’s final plate and it’s a dainty piece of blueberry cheesecake with half a bacon-wrapped wiener on the side. And six battered potato nuggets. Last kick at the can till the next meal.

To wit – and at the risk of putting you off food forever – here’s a look at one of Wayne’s final plates. And this was at breakfast:

“Pasta paella,” a weird leftover-salmon vol-au-vent that he stuffed with capers from another dish, two kinds of grouper, a big ol’ slab of guacamole, and a pickle. There were deep-fried, sugar-coated Mexican doughnuts for dessert.

With meals like this, there was no snacking, unless you count the liquids. Mango margaritas in particular – olé!

What Wayne lost in plate size he more than made up for in mug size. The special mug below, purchased for him by our beloved hosts, The Lobster Guy and Ms. Eden West, depicts some great foreshadowing – the lizard god holding a head in his fist, which Wayne soon found out, the morning of Hangover Number One, was his own.

It was the supper we shared on the final night of the trip that nearly killed us. Our entourage of 12 had reservations at the open-air seafood restaurant, down by the beach. The salad bar teemed with crab claws, the kind of food that happily connects you to your most savage instincts:

The entrées were too hard to choose between, so Wayne and I did my favourite thing. We split the lobster tail in garlic butter

and the grilled shrimp, which were sweet, fat and fantastically blackened:

For dessert, we also split two choices: “chocolate soufflé,” which was so totally not soufflé (it was actually a chocolate lava cake – but who’s complaining):

and a tiny little nub of chocolate cheesecake:

They were dense but small. They weren’t even too sweet. There were little M’s on the plate and everything! But we could not take them down. Couldn’t finish. First time in my life I’ve ever not finished my dessert. Wayne says it’s because our reserves maxed out. The tanks were freaking full.

I stuffed in one more painful bite and the baby started bawling. Even he knew it was time to lope off to bed, then get the hell out of Dante’s third circle before one of us exploded.

In the morning, we flew home. My travel pants were definitely tighter. When we emerged through the doors at Pearson and hit the city air, it was 20 degrees. Salad weather. Gracias a dios.

A few weeks ago I got canned in high style, and it hit me right in the kitchen. I turned to two things to get through the early days spent absorbing strange news: a couple of old, easy (already-blogged-about) recipes that I knew wouldn’t fail me the way something else just had, and mostly takeout. This left me with nothing to post.

The trend continued. I focused on staring out the kitchen window to see what message the branches were scraping into the air for me. (You’d be surprised how pleasant such a pastime is.) Then, on the weekend, I came to this line in the New York Times Book Review: “When we find ourselves coping with pain, the kitchen can become our therapist.” The line woke me up, for I had a word to share with the reviewer: “Mika Brzezinski, completely untrue!”

The job situation had spleened me; my mind and hands weren’t gravitating to the chopping board; they were elsewhere. They were suddenly required for making innumerable lists, plotting the straightest route to get the hell out of publishing and into…forensics? Dentistry?

Therapy was letting Wayne cook, for crying out loud. It was eating Thai soup and cold rolls every other night. It was weird tinned suppers and distracted, hardscrabble lunches of veggie-salami sandwiches. (Have you seen that stuff?)

And while I agree, Brzezinski, that eating is a great balm, cooking takes creativity and effort and gumption. And all of those forces had to be gathered and pointed at a new plan.

In any case, after a week or two, I started to recognize myself in the lists I was making. The first hint of a storyline began to emerge, and a timeline. A workback – beloved workback! – has started to take shape, and it has made me feel more like myself again.

Or at least enough so to realize I need a kick start in the kitchen, if this blog – and supper itself – is to carry on. I enlisted the help of three cookbooks from the library and started with the lightest one first. It was a bit of a novelty selection, called the What Can I Bring? Cookbook, a ’50s-meets-aughts feed-a-crowd potluck cookbook – perfect recipes for the wake of an old magazine hack.

While the baby slept, I howled over “Cowboy caviar” (a cross between salsa and guacamole, with beans), “Can’t Eat Just One spinach balls” (the ingredients include a box of stuffing mix, and I will certainly not knock this till I’ve tried it) and “Ladies’ lunch tomato aspic” (whoa).

But there were delish-sounding dishes, too, that I would definitely try the next time I have to cook for a crowd: “Mindy’s [love the Mindy’s] grilled figs with honey, walnuts, and crumbled Stilton,” “BLT canapés” and “Ricotta-filled bresaola with arugula and parmesan shavings” – which show pretty good range for a potluck manual. These funny recipes started to made me hungry for the kitchen again.

I moved on to The New Lighthearted Cookbook, but – travesty! – next to no photographs. Very naughty, Anne Lindsay. Straight back to the library you go.

And there I found the winner in an unexpected place: the blow-dried, manicured domain of Giada deLaurentiis, in her cookbook called Giada’s Kitchen: New Italian Favourites.

With her super-plucked brows and jersey tank tops, Giada always struck me as kind of tediously high-maintenance, so I tended to avoid her. But after one flip-through of this excellent book, I was in full repentance for the unfair judgment. I wanted to cook and eat almost everything in it. I grabbed hold of a piece of cardboard in the recycling bin and started stuffing every other page with a placeholder.

I wanted:

Spicy Parmesan Greens with Kale

Artichoke Gratinata

Asparagus Lasagna (not a tomato in it)

Swiss Chard and Sweet Pea Manicotti

Roasted Halibut with Grapefruit Fennel Salsa

Cornmeal and Rosemary Cake with Balsamic Syrup (weird. But how could you not want to try a taste?)

Polenta-crusted Shrimp

Pizza Pot Pies

Hazelnut Crunch Cake with Mascarpone and Chocolate (how can I describe the tantalizing picture. It’s Libeskind meets a Scorcese wedding: dark chocolate layer cake, intersected with indomitable stripes of creamy white icing, impaled all over with towering shards of hazelnut brittle. Heart racing. Scanning the calendar for birthdays. I need to make this for someone, stat.)

Yesterday, I tried my hand at Rigatoni with Vegetable Bolognese.

To start, GDL instructed me to chop the veg in the Cuisinart. Fantastic. In went garlic, carrots, red pepper and onion, pulsed until chunky in just a few seconds:

I sautéed them in a pan with olive oil, then added thyme, oregano, pepper and salt (lots of it . Nicely done, Giada). It cooked quickly, in little more than 5 minutes.

Then in went tomato paste and chopped fresh mushrooms.

Once the mushrooms had softened, I added stock and red wine

and reduced the whole (already) fragrant lot of it till it was intense and flavourful.

I knew then when I stuck my spoon in it that this pasta was going to be spectacular. (And I’d even forgotten to buy the dried mushrooms this recipe calls for in addition to the fresh. Surely they would have added even more depth to the overall flavour. My stupid Frills doesn’t carry them, so I substituted bouillon for the missing liquid.)

I turned the sauce off and waited for Wayne to get home to finish it. It wasn’t until then, a couple of hours later, when I stirred in half a cup of mascarpone, that I realized this was that rare thing – a pasta so good I would consider serving it to my parents.

Look at the mascarpone, melting in there like a giant scoop of ice cream:

I whipped up a five-minute cucumber salad, and Wayne threw some asparagus under the broiler while I put the baby to bed.

Then we tossed the rigatoni with the creamy sauce

and fell into a pasta reverie/coma.

I can tell you one thing those branches scratched into the air outside the kitchen window, a message from the future: The new me isn’t wasting another second of her life on whole-wheat pasta. Beyond that, the sky’s the limit.

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Words of Wayne

Look at what Wayne discovered on his breakfast plate (medium: banana string). It's the Playboy Banana. I ask you, Dr. Freud: How does he find this stuff? If he could have, he would have put it in his cherished Food Oddities mug, along with the treble-clef pretzel and the Bill Clinton potato chip.

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