The door shrieks whenever it opens. It is startling, even after weeks of hearing it. Once in the morning and once in the evening it screams open, then closed. A pair of boots tramps out in the morning and drags in at night.
I've always had pretty bizarre, entertaining dreams. As this is the case, whenever I hold onto a fragment long enough to remember it, and as long as it isn't too embarrassing, I've opted to write it down. I share it for the laughs, or perhaps for the eyebrow arched in concern for my sanity.
The contents of this recipe (and all ensuing photos) were obtained at great personal peril from deep cover as an innocently hungry daughter, asking her Dad just how he does the grilled cheese magic.
"But Dusty, if you've abandoned caffeine, what do you use as a replacement? And what could possibly replace the taste of coffee?" the masses cry out. Well...
"Keep writing through it all. If you only wrote when motivated, you’d be a poet." (Pirateba, author of The Wandering Inn) Words cannot express how much I hate this idea, how long I have bucked it, and the depth of my dread at the prospect of finally facing it.