Breasts and Birds and Droolin' and Stuff!

A bird is roasting to a bitter death in my oven. Wups. Typo: A butter death!

MMmMM!

With THYME, even.

I saw my boss's chicken-topped salad today and thought it looked stellar, so zipped outta work early and rushed off to Granville Island and bought a four-pound roasted for about $8... gee, exactly what she paid for her salad!

Tonight, spuds'n'gravy'n'broccolli'n'bird. Who says you gotta wait until Sunday, huh? Tomorrow? I'll do the salad she had, for a fraction of the cost, and with homemade salad dressing. 'cos, like, I'm just that cool. Oh, yeah. And lunch for the rest of the week's looking good. I think Friday's a chicken-baguette sandwich wich some piccante provolone and some of my funky Provence mustard and whatever else I dream up. I'm eatin' goooood.

But I'm tired. And I can't WAIT to sink my teeth into that breast. Not that I'm a breast girl or anything. I'm more partial to bubble butts in jeans, but I'll take what I can get, and that means bird boob. So to speak.

I'm sure it's sounding somewhat less appetizing now, but that's 'cos you can't SMELL that sexy beast. I can, and I'm nigh on droolin' over here.

I must baste. And then slack.