I'm planning a cook-out for Memorial Day Weekend. Old friends. Their kids. Etc.
My deal with Mrs. DovBear is she handles the inside, and the outside is mine (though I make spectacular soups, and she occasionally takes out the garbage.) So, I went to the ladies I work with (another clue!) for some advice on how to entertain styishly and correctly. Their suggestons were excellent, of course, but I took offense here:
Co-Worker: Poterhouse steaks are what I recommend.
Me: Oh. I don't think the Porterhouse is kosher.
Co-Worker: Sure. It's $7.99/lb. Of course it's not kosher.
Hello! Do you know what I pay for a measly, stinkin' rib-steak? $9.99/lb!
Of course, I didn't say that. Instead, I called up my Look of Death (TM) the look that peels paint off old sheds. The look I use when I wish to communicate the fact that I am most utterly pissed.
She apologized. And I'm using her recipe for hamburgers. (The secret? Vegetable juice.)
