I hate to complain. But it is hot, too hot, triple digs. The huge vintage fan is blowing on me, the ball chain pull cord bounces rhythmically against the chrome bullet that houses the motor and my mind refuses to keep with the tasks at hand. It keeps drifting to cold treats and wishing we had ice cream trucks in this neighborhood of ours and then I find myself here, engaging in internet food porn, because even just the pictures bring pleasure.
Wouldn't it be perfect if this, this, this and this were all nutritionally equivalent to a stalk of broccoli? A girl can dream.