I don’t even care if it’s June and I’m showing you comfort food. Don’t even care.
Because I’m a firm believer in comfort food being less about seasons, and more about the hankerings of the fairies that burrow deep within your soul lining. Because when those fairies get a craving for something, and they come alive at night, just like Phoebe Buffay’s disturbing paintings, Gladys and Glynnis, you don’t want to be held responsible for what could unfold. I honestly can’t even bear the thought. And you shouldn’t have to either. So don’t do it. Eat the chicken pot pie.
This one has a pie crust on top. You’re probably like, “They all do, Bev.” And I’m like, “I know. High five.”
This one has a bunch of kale in it. You’re probably like, “Oh, neat. That’s a little different.” And I’m like, “I know. High five.”
This one has a little bit of fresh sage in it. You’re probably like, “Sounds pretty good.” And I’m like, “I know. High five.”
If I named my firstborn Glynnis would you paper cut me?