This one's autobiographical.

Drabble:

When I was nine, Dad was teaching at a small but prestigious college in North Carolina. Mom had split a couple years before, and we rented rooms to a couple of undergrads. They were stereotypical upper middle class Southern good old boys, and their stereotypical Southern Belle debutante girlfriends would come over from their own college to visit most weekends. I remember this one Saturday I had just made a grilled cheese sandwich for my lunch and was taking it out of the toaster oven when one of the girls came in.

"Oh, that looks wonderful! And it smells delicious!" She paused. "What's the recipe?"

I've been writing a lot, but not always drabbles. And I wrote one a few topics back and decided it was bad and didn't post it.

dcp, I'm laughing like a loon.

I'm a trained cook, and one of the few things on earth I completely butcher every time is your basic grilled cheese sandwich.

Seriously. Nic handles those.

Deb, GCS purists would sneer that I made it in the toaster oven, but at nine I wasn't allowed to use the real stove if Dad wasn't home.

I was just flabbergasted when she said "recipe." At first I thought it was just an automatic Southern Belle courtesy formula. Then I realized she had no clue, and honestly wanted to know how to make the sandwich. She was a social butterfly, in college to snag a future doctor or lawyer or politician and get her Mrs. degree. Kinda sad, really.

Then I realized she had no clue, and honestly wanted to know how to make the sandwich.

"Well, you start with water - oh, wait, I don't have the recipe for that."

My problem is, I either burn the damned through not enough butter (not a fan of fried foods generally), or else I grit my teeth and put too much butter in the pan and it's Grease Central.

Nic can make them. I suck at making them.

You know, if WMGGW wasn't a locked-down WIP intended for eventual publication, there's an entire chapter section dealing with Bree making dinner that I'd simply lift out and post. It's the POV of the narrator, who isn't a foodie at all and never has been, watching the woman he loves put together lamb shanks in quatre epices and a savoyard. And she doesn't know he's watching.

My problem is, I either burn the damned through not enough butter (not a fan of fried foods generally), or else I grit my teeth and put too much butter in the pan and it's Grease Central.

This may sound gross, but it truly isn't: instead of using butter, lightly smear the bread with mayonnaise. It will fry up perfectly, and w/o excess grease.

I think this might be the best drabble I've written. I cheated a bit, but I can't really cook.
HOW TO MAKE AN UNBIRTHDAY CAKE

1. Find out your best college friend isn’t actually pregnant.

2. Heave great shuddering sigh of relief as you are pro-choice and she is not and your tongue hurts from biting it so very hard.

3. Take wheelchair down to corner grocery store to interface with your homegirl Sara Lee and buy one poundcake.

4. Decide “We’re celebrating” and buy the frozen strawberries and reddi-wip too, even though people stare cause you buy it with foodstamps and some snotty taxpayers don’t like bankrolling frivolity like whipped cream. Rationalize they would be less happy paying for the other result.

5. Feel grateful it’s Drew the Psycho on overnights tonight because he will just help you have your cake party and not narc on you for breaking routine. Sometimes it’s cool he has so many personalities, and that tonight’s is the mellow Buffett fan.

6. Go home. Squirt whipped cream directly in your mouth the way your mother taught you as a kid.

7. Have cake and strawberries with your friend and Drew at midnight. Smile mysteriously when Drew asks what the occasion is. You both know...that’s all that matters.
8. Wonder why your friend cries because her life *isn’t* completely upended.

Amy, I love you. But I put the words "fried" and "mayonaise" together and my intestines just did the shimmy-coco-bop.

I'm damned if I know why anyone calls that sandwich "grilled". It's clearly fried.

erika, that's a complete kicker, damn it.

I have deep and especial love for number 3.