Here’s the short version of why this blog died for awhile: got a new job, got married, got injured, got better, and am, finally, getting back on the horse (he galloped away from me for awhile, the gosh darn so-and-so). Hopefully, laziness won’t encourage me to put another 18-month blogless black hole under my belt anytime soon. May the force be with me.
I’m going to be real honest with you for a moment: I did not know that rhubarb came in stalks until a few years ago. I feel plenty of shame for this, so please: judge my ignorance in silence. I don’t think I ever thought about what it actually was shaped like (A berry? A melon? A big amorphous blob of yum?), nor could I actually pin point its distinct flavor. Rarely does rhubarb get a solo performance: it’s usually second fiddle to its frenemy the strawberry. Don’t get me wrong, this magical combination has driven me to many a pie-eating contest (against myself), but it’s time to give rhubarb it’s due.
So the Super Bowl was yesterday and blah blah blah. I may offend many of my fellow Americans when I say this, but what the hell is with everyone and football? Grown men darting around in Spanx, fighting to the death over a charmingly-named “pig skin”, bashing heads like they’re auditioning for Braveheart? Um, hello?
Can you tell I never played sports?
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