I don’t want to imply that my husband, The Lord & Master, can be a wee bit picky about what food I toss into his trough, but his report on Monday’s lunch bag offerings went like this:
Wiggles: Did ya like your lunch?
L&M: [gesturing a big thumbs down] No. I did not like that weird bun thing.
Wiggles: How about the meats and cheese inside? Good?
L&M: How could I tell? All I could taste was that crummy roll.
Cut to: tonight, making yet another sandwich for the man I worship and adore. I knew the detested brioche roll was out, so I grabbed some whole wheat slices. Unfortunately, just a skootch of mold had developed. Only on the outer edges. I swear. Finding two mainly spared specimens, I picked off any offending greenish developments. He’s not going to notice those raggedy edges, right?
Our nephew Max, back in residence in the Sassafrass Suite, happily accepted my offer for a brioche roll lunch feast.
And he’s promised me that should the L&M develop any peculiar tummy troubles, mum’s the word.
Deny, deny, deny. Who’s to say a bissel mold ever hurt anybody?