get it?
deer can
April 27, 2011
An Epic Mile of Meet
February 16, 2011
Once upon a St. Valentine’s Day, one young lady (we’ll call her Kellie), accompanied by her trusty “WingWoman,” (also known as Stephanie) set out to find her Prince Semi-Charming along the fabled Mile of Meet.
She traversed to a far away land in the City of Brotherly Love – otherwise known as Manayunk – to walk along a Main Street lined with men from far and wide; young and old; black and white (and everything in between) and battle other hopeful single ladies in search of that long sought-after fairytale ending (or one-night stand, whichever worked best after fueling up on $4 Cupidtinis).
"mile" may have been stretching it
we hope he got one
Armed with her “You Lost Me at Hello” t-shirt, Kellie perused the various eligible bachelors and, in the process, was able to snag a photo-op with local celebrity Steve Ward as well as a monkey-on-a-bicycle balloon animal.
i thought steve ward would be more photogenic
Plenty of potential suitors were more than willing to strut their sad stuff on the stage (i.e. by demonstrating their “Situations”, lip-syncing to “I’m Too Sexy,” or reading erotic poetry) but none caught Kellie’s eye quite as much as one of the helpful match-making elves, also known as an “Ice Breaker.”
The Helpful Ice-Breaker Elf
Even though Kellie worked hard to win the affections of this young man, in the end, the best part of her night was spending time with her loyal “WingWoman” taking pictures in the photo booth and noshing on the free brick oven pizza.
Photo booth Fun!
After searching high and low, and slaying a few cougars in the process, Kellie discovered that Manayunk is not the enchanted forest and love don’t live there anymore. Despite this, though, Kellie left hopeful and with a renewed sense of adventure in her quest to find Prince Semi-Charming (probably in a place other than Manayunk – although if you are looking for Prince Frosted-Spiked-Tips-I’m-Somewhat-of-a-Douche-and-not-so-Charming, you will have found your perfect ending).
ringing in thirty with style
December 10, 2010
Is there anything better than downing a can of Schlitz at 7am on a Monday? Well, yes, probably lots of things because chugging a Schlitz is pretty darn disgusting, but it was still the best way I could have ever celebrated my birthday in this city. On a chilly Monday morning, one day after I turned 30, my twin sister Kim picked me up and we drove on over to Ray’s Happy Birthday Bar at the corner of Passyunk and Federal. Ray’s opens at 7am Monday through Saturday, and I’ve always been curious about the type of person that would go there at that time. What better way to find out than by becoming one of them myself?
Armed with a cheesesteak from Pat’s (conveniently located only one block away), we entered Ray’s in our sweats and slippers (remember, it was 7am), followed closely by several friends looking to share in the wonder of this early morning event.
breakfast of champions
To start the day off on a fairly unbearable yet amazing note, we toasted with our cans of Schlitz and then raced to finish them, which was a highly unsuccessful endeavor. (Jimmy put us all to shame, but I’m happy to say that I kicked his ass in round two.)
the most disgusting chug of all
As we continued to get our drink on (which included “Jager bombs” that were just glasses full of Jager and ginger ale), the owner – Ray’s son, Lou – brought us over a bottle of champagne, free t-shirts and a birthday Schlitz, which was a can dressed up with two candles taped to it. Classy.
who needs cake?
The drinking continued, which led to dancing, which led to free drinks and more dancing. It was a vicious, drunken cycle of awesome.
this is how we always dance
Turning 30 is a milestone that many a woman dreads. For them, it’s a sign that they have passed their prime, no longer the partying, easy going young thing that gets picked up at the bar on a Saturday night. 30 is like the ushering in of a new era for these ladies, one in which they are ready to shrivel up and waste away with 12 cats and a basketful of yarn and knitting needles. What they need is a drunken dose of Ray’s while playing hookey from work. And who knows? They may just see me there.
“adult” air guitar
October 24, 2010
*This post has some risque elements contained within. If you’re a parent of Kellie or Stephanie, you should just skip this one, and continue your idealized view of your daughters.
On Sunday, October 10th, the North Star Bar (27th and Poplar Streets) competed against playoff baseball and an unpopular weekend night out (albeit teachers and city employees had the following day off) to host the first ever Philadelphia leg of the Air Sex World Championships tour.
2009 was the first year of the Air Sex World Championships, which toured 14 cities and eventually crowned the champion from LA as the best-of-the-best in the finals in Austin. This year, the tour expanded to 20 cities, allowing the citizens of the City of Brotherly Love the chance to gyrate for glory and a world title.
For those of you who want to know more, but hate clicking on links, here’s the quick and dirty from the website:
Never been to an Air Sex show before? Here’s what you need to know: it’s a lot like Air Guitar, but instead of rocking out with an imaginary guitar, you’re making sweet and/or filthy love with an imaginary sex partner. You choose a clip of music, you show up in whatever sort of wardrobe you like, and you come up on stage and show everyone how you do it. Or how you wish you could do it. Or how you once had it done to you, and oh my god was that a bad idea and while it’s embarrassing to show that act to a room of strangers, you know that you need to do it now in order to make sure that no one else falls down the same rabbit hole you got stuck inside. Or, you know, just do it however you want.
The only rules we have are the laws laid down by the state we’re in. Since most Air Sex venues serve alcohol, you can’t get naked. And since some also serve food, all orgasms have to be simulated (or at least arguably so). Other than that, you’re free to do whatever it takes to impress the judges, the audience in the theater, and the world!
As we entered the bar, the bouncer checked our IDs while trying to convince us to add ourselves to the contestant list. At first I was flattered, assuming that we were asked because of some vibe we were giving off that alluded to our air sex prowess, but, once we made it to the back room, I realized that the hard sell was because of a lack of contestants.
The first performance was an exhibition by the emcee, done to R. Kelly’s “Bump and Grind.” Then, the judges were announced, one of whom was on the tour, and two that were Philly natives. They ran through their expectations of the contestants, stressing creativity (“you can only see so many fisting routines…”) and commitment to the craft (“if you’re not ready to get air pregnant, get the fuck out of my room”).
Contestant number 1 ended up being the bouncer, who put on a pretty fantastic show wearing only a furry thong shaped like the head of a bull. His wife is definitely one lucky lady.
The second contestant was an embarrassingly drunk guy who kept falling down in the crowd while yelling “sex!” over and over. I had my fingers crossed for a face plant while he was on stage, but instead, I witnessed what may have been the saddest air sex performance ever documented. When it ended (seemingly 3 days later), the judges ripped into the guy, asking him if he always nailed his feet to the floor when having sex, and joking about the fact that he was singing along to the song the whole time. Whoever it is that he sleeps with is NOT quite as fortunate as the bouncer’s wife.
One of the judges came up next, and if I never end up in a room with him again, it’ll be too soon. He was an over-the-top, yelling for the sake of yelling, Lewis Black wannabe whose comments made Stephanie and me contemplate the merits of stabbing ourselves in our ear drums with dull pencils. As he sang “My Cock is on Fire” (a parody of the Kings of Leon song “Sex on Fire“), we decided we couldn’t take it anymore and ducked out of the event to watch the end of the Phillies game.
Overall, the Philadelphia Air Sex World Championships was a bit of a letdown, though I think the perfect storm of it being a new event for the city, taking place on a Sunday and competing against playoff baseball in a sports town kept the crowds away. I’ll keep my fingers crossed that next year, the “talent” comes out en masse.
The Power of Love (and the Legwarmers)
September 27, 2010
It’s no coincidence that since starting the ForTasteSake blog, Kellie and my social calendars have blossomed. Whether it be attending the Boys of Summer fundraiser for the Philly Gay Calendar or indulging in a Schmitter and a cold, over-priced beer at CBP (Citizen’s Bank Park for the non-Philadelphians out there), we have welcomed any development that will ensure a lack of hermithood in our overworked and often under-partied lives. What has been surprising, though, is the amount of time we have both spent in recent months at the Troc. I had never been before starting this blog (my musical tastes always seemed a little too “mainstream” for the Troc); however, when we were informed of the ultimate 80′s tribute band – The Legwarmers – Kellie and I jumped at the chance to check out what all the fuss was about.
Without doubt, the first time Kellie and I saw The Legwarmers perform, it may have been one of the best nights of my life. There is nothing like dancing and singing along to the songs of your youth with complete reckless abandon (as demonstrated below):
You've got to fight for your right to party
While I woke up the following morning in a damp t-shirt (from the sweaty mess that was me the previous evening) and feeling like I’d run a marathon (try jumping up and down dancing for 4 hours), I immediately checked for their next appearance in the Philadelphia area, which happened to be this past Saturday.
Kellie and I learned our lesson from our first experience with the Legwarmers and we made sure to come decked out in our finest 80′s regalia (I thank Walmart for providing me with my entire outfit — who knew studded, black leggings would still be popular?).
Studded Leggings. Respect.
Sweet Jacket
The walk to the Troc was a bit awkward, I must admit – though the stares and whispers by passersby were surely a result of unbridled jealousy – but, once we were amongst the other faithful Legwarmers’ followers, we felt at home. Mesh tops, jelly bracelets, metallic gold track suits, Members Only jackets, high-top Reeboks, and walkmans – it was as though we stepped into a scene from Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo (way better than the original Breakin’, by the way). Once the Legwarmers took the stage, it was full-on 80′s domination: Whitesnake, the Beastie Boys, Madonna, Asia, Devo, the Cure, MJ, Huey Lewis and the News. It was the soundtrack of the first decade of my life and took me back to the days of watching Dancin’ On Air (Dancin\’ on Air (1984): Classic!) and Girls Just Want to Have Fun (Sarah Jessica Parker pre-SATC).
S-A-F-E-T-Y, Safety Dance
While the Legwarmers are just one of the many eccelectic, amazing, and affordable Troc offerings (see my previous post about Skeletor and Luchadores), they might just be the only one that could convince me that wearing black lycra and hot pink heels is perfectly acceptable. What’s happening, Hot Stuff?
the west philly standard
September 19, 2010
A few weeks ago, Stephanie and I sojourned to West Philly for a meal, some tree viewing, and the backyard EP release show for Cranes Are Flying. We chose The Gold Standard Cafe at 4800 Baltimore Ave. for dinner, which is owned by the same people who once ran Abbraccio’s just a few blocks over. (Hence the name of the website – www.abbracciorestaurant.com.)
Situated on a triangular stretch of land on the southwest corner of the street, I had only ever gone there for breakfast, because it’s one of the few places in the city where you can get a bagel with hummus and avocado. (For a gal who loathes cream cheese, a coffee shop that has hummus is a huge score…) There’s a fair amount of outdoor seating, so it took about a year’s worth of visits (which are fairly few in number, given that I don’t live or work on that side of the river) to realize that the small front room, which holds the coffee counter and a few chairs, isn’t the only indoor space – there’s actually a decent sized, slightly more formal dining area in the back.
Another great thing about Gold Standard, in addition to the hummus and avocado bagels, is the fact that it’s a BYOB, so you can save a few pesos while still getting your buzz on. Unfortunately, due to quite the bender the night before that took a while to recover from (my recovery time seems to grow in direct relationship to my increasing age), Stephanie and I decided to fore-go the booze. However, a part of me couldn’t help feeling a bit jealous of the couple that was sipping on some pink champagne, because it reminded me of my days at James Madison University, when I regularly made party while double fisting $4 bottles of pink Andre. And, let’s be honest, it’s extremely rare that I don’t have a desire to drink champagne, regardless of how cheap and/or disgusting it is.
Stephanie went with the vegan summer garbanzos (stewed chick peas with sundried tomatoes,
squash, preserved lemon and tabouleh), which she was totally into,
beans!
while I partook of the sea scallop salad (seared scallops, bean salad, barley and bulgar pilaf), which could have used a scoch less dressing, but was, all in all, a pretty tasty dish.
We ordered coffees to go, still needing caffeine to balance out our sluggish and hungover bodies (if you’re lucky, someday I’ll tell you the horribly embarrassing story of the previous night), and headed to the show, which once again took me back to my days in basements and yards listening to local bands in The Friendly City. I realized while I was listening to Cranes Are Flying (it was my first time hearing them, and I think I need to listen to their recorded stuff before forming an actual opinion about whether or not I’m a fan) that anyone who struggles to understand the difference between hipsters and indie kids need only attend a local, backyard show to clear it up once and for all.
But I digress…
my dirty little secret
August 6, 2010
To continue the dating conversation begun several weeks ago, let me tell you the story of my one and only fadeaway. Here’s what happened (if my parents are reading this, I just want you to know that I make better decisions these days): I was out one night about four years ago with a friend of mine who wanted me to experience Puerto Rican North Philly and the world he came from. We went to several bars over the course of the evening and finally ended up, in the wee hours of the morning, at an after-hours club at 2nd and Erie. (Anyone from Philly knows there’s not a lot of good happening there at 3am.) After a full-body pat down that assured the bouncer that I was unarmed (I was informed shortly thereafter by Jumbo, one of my bar-hopping companions, that the last time he had been there, a shooting had occurred), I entered the club, which was basically a room with a bar on one end and a dance floor on the other. I downed several bottles of Corona – that’s all my friend would allow me to drink that night, other than shots of rum – and noticed a Haitian guy on the dance floor, who, though a bit shorter (my height) than my general tastes run, had fantastic locks. (For those who aren’t in the know, locks refers to dread locks.) I approached him; we danced, flirted, exchanged numbers and then went our separate ways.
Divinity (that’s right, his name was DIVINITY; or at least, that’s what he went by) called me up a few days later, and we made plans to meet up at the movies in the Northeast. (By the way, going on a first date to the movies is a bad idea. Don’t do it.) That went well enough, and we decided to grab some food, so we got in our respective cars (because, let’s be real, I didn’t know this guy, so I wasn’t getting in his car) and headed to Friendly’s on the Boulevard. It was during this ice cream time that I learned that Divinity had OCD (there was an issue with the cleanliness of silverware that ended up with the need for individually wrapped plastic utensils). Not necessarily a dealbreaker, but it has potential to be one depending on the severity. As we said goodnight and I prepared to go my separate way, he asked me why I wasn’t going to sleep with him that night. (If there are any guys reading this that aren’t clear about this, it’s not okay to ask that on a first date. Or ever.) He also pulled out this little gem as he tried to entice me: “Most people think all Haitian men have AIDS, but I don’t. I promise.” YIKES.
At that point, I should have realized that Divinity and I were not going to work out, but, as someone who likes a free meal, I agreed to see him again the next weekend. This time, we went to Kabobeesh, an Indian restaurant at 42nd and Chestnut. (If anyone reading this can explain to me why a man with OCD and hygiene issues would suggest going to an Indian buffet, I would be much obliged. It’s been baffling me for years.) We once again had issues with cutlery and dishes, resulting in full use of paper products, but at least that was accompanied by excessively dull conversation that was strained, at best. He asked me where I lived (since I had yet to let him pick me up for a date), and I vaguely told him the Italian Market, but refused to give him any specifics. The meal ended and he walked me to my car, where he kissed me goodnight and said he’d like to see me again, to which I mumbled something unintelligible and quickly drove away.
While I recognize that I should have been direct with him and just told him I wasn’t interested, I didn’t, and, for the next several weeks, he called and texted quite often. I never answered the phone or responded, and got what I deserved when he started calling upwards of six times a day. I also saw him wandering around my neighborhood once or twice (he never saw me), which made me quite happy in my decision to not tell him exactly where I lived, the main reason being that he had no business being in my neighborhood, since he lived in WILMINGTON, DE. (You can’t really pull the I-just-happened-to-be-in-the-neighborhood thing with distance like that.) I get that I’m charming, but come on.
To make a long story even longer, my point is that, since we’d only been out twice , the fadeaway was an acceptable form of ending things between us. Of course, it’s also true that I wimped out and just couldn’t be direct, and that resulted in my phone and neighborhood both ending up being things I wanted to avoid for a few weeks, but I stand by that fadeaway. If I had it to do all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing, except maybe deciding to go out with a guy named Divinity that I met at a North Philly after-hours club where it was assumed I was carrying a weapon.
So, if this were a fairy tale and I wanted you to take away a moral from this story, here’s what it would be: don’t pick up men in places where people have been shot. There’s no greater dating wisdom I can impart than that.
when i bleed red, white and blue
August 2, 2010
I don’t profess to be a patriotic person. Sure, I’m happy to be a resident of the US of A, but I also believe there are other countries I’d be just as happy in (with the added bonus of potentially developing a charming accent, rather than the guttural twang that came about during my formative years in the Pine Barrens of South Jersey). And, while I’m thankful for the opportunities that I’ve had in this country, I don’t get teary-eyed when I see the stars and stripes waving softly on the breeze of democracy. (You know we live in a Republic, right?)
However, there is something that makes me feel like a red-blooded, apple pie loving, terrorist hating member of this Union: baseball. There is no time when I feel greater pride in my country than when I’m sitting in the cheap seats at a Phillies game, sucking down the most American meal known to man – cold beer and lukewarm hot dogs – in the blazing summer sun. Can there be a greater sense of unity than high fiving a row of complete strangers in the excitement of a walk off homerun or a stronger feeling of brotherhood created when starting the wave and seeing it ripple out over 45,000 people?
There’s a feeling of comraderie that seems to wash over me as I’m sweating alongside fellow red-shirted fans that makes my heart swell with pride at being both a Philadelphian and an American. Perhaps I’ve been brainwashed by years of hearing baseball referred to as our “national pastime,” to the point that I can no longer separate the game from the country. Or, perhaps I’m just a simple gal who loves bad food and worse beer, and the loud hum of joy, frustration and, occasionally, sorrow from an audience wearing their collective hearts on their t-shirt sleeves.
proud to be an american.
romantic ramblings of dating novices
July 17, 2010
As (relatively) young, single, working professional women in a city of roughly 1.5 million people (over 200,000 of which are aged 25-34), it seems as though it shouldn’t be quite so difficult to find relatively interesting men to pass some time with (and maybe share some meals with). We’ve both realized that over the 30+ years that we’ve spent stumbling through the urban dating jungle (oh yes, it IS a jungle out there!), we’ve learned our fair share and thought it only made sense for us to spread our warped dating perspectives and experiences to the masses. (We’re all about helping others, you know.)
Kellie: Dating has never been high up on my list of priorities. I’m completely okay with not being in a relationship, and, frankly, I’m unsure at this point that I even have the patience for sustained interaction with one person over a substantial length of time. Don’t get me wrong; I enjoy people and spending time with others, but I also really enjoy being by myself and doing things alone. Basically, I realize that I’m difficult to get along with at times, and I find others difficult as well.
Stephanie: And I’ve quickly learned to get over my parents’ frequent referral of my cat, Daphne, as their grand-daughter (in fact, I think it kind-of sweet now) or the awkward family gatherings in which my single-dom is an inevitable topic of conversation (nope, haven’t met anyone “special” since our last awkward family gathering two months ago).
Kellie: Recently, I went on a date (for real – the dress and heels kind), and when I mentioned it to my mom, her response was, “I thought you’d given up on humanity.” I think that perhaps it’s more accurate to say that I’m unconcerned with dating either way – whether I do it or not doesn’t really matter to me. If I found someone that could tolerate my independence, sarcasm, workaholism and addiction to text messaging, while having good taste in music, a dry wit, similar political and social justice views and a steady career, I’d consider “dating” him (or at least getting to know him). Otherwise, I have friends, family, and undateable men I already hang out with, so I’m all set.
Stephanie: Similarly, I laughed when I first read in “The Rules” the following: men are the adversary, especially on the first date (caveat: I did not purchase this book of my own accord… I knew Kellie and I would be doing a dating post so I was trying to do some research. As a self-respecting, intelligent, single gal, I had to put that out there). However, as time goes on, I think there is some truth to approaching dating from this position. At it’s overly-simplistic core, this gem is telling you that you have to be prepared, can’t let your guard down, and make sure that you are armed with the appropriate amount of artillery to deflect any BS that is bound to head your way from the opposite sex from time-to-time. Above all else, you can’t let yourself get hurt and, while vulnerability can be the hallmark of a great Audrey Hepburn movie, it can also be the hallmark of your dating downfall.
Kellie: A few weeks ago, Stephanie sent me this article from New York Magazine about “the fadeaway,” which is when a person just sort of disappears from your romantic life, with no explanation and no further contact. Now, while the merits (or lack of merit) of this approach can be debated, I have my own personal opinion (surprise!), which may or may not be biased based on my own past actions: the fadeaway is perfectly acceptable if you’ve been out with someone less than three times. If that’s all the time you’ve spent together, you don’t owe them anything, nor do they owe you. Sorry, folks. I know we all generally claim that we want closure or an explanation, but, sometimes, it’s just not necessary.
(Also, to be clear, when I say “been out,” I mean official, intentional, I-made-a-conscious-decision-to-spend-time-with-you dates. Whether you actually decide to call them dates is your own choice. None of that we-ran-into-each-other-at-bar/party/restaurant/coffee shop-and-spent-some-time-talking business.)
Stephanie: And speaking of the fadeaway….as someone who does not necessarily buy into spiritual, other-wordly pursuits, I have been thinking more and more that my dating karma has turned ugly and the dating gods have forsaken me because of my past indiscretions. I’ve wondered, did the fadeaway just get pulled on me because of the fadeaway I pulled in 2003? And maybe kissing my ex’s bff at sorority formal was a baaad idea (I blame the massive amounts of white zin for that one. Yeah, so what, I drank white zin in college. I was trying to be “classy”). Is it possible that my proverbial dating hens have come home to roost? I mean, who knows, but I’ve taken to burning sage just in case….
This is not to say that all is bad or that I’m going to give up and start playing for the other team (I still haven’t completely convinced myself that this isn’t a partial motivation for some men to be complete douche lords: the hope that their idiocy will force a woman into the arms of another woman – hot). However, it is to say that we have to be prepared for what we will be faced with when we are out there traversing what can sometimes be a very barren landscape and to do unto others as you would have others do unto you (as much as possible).
So what can be learned from Kellie’s and my somewhat unintentionally constructed dating frameworks? We’re not sure. But it sure has been cathartic for us to write about it and, while Kellie and I certainly don’t have the answers to it all, we are hoping that this blog can be a forum for us to not only share what turns us on when it comes to good food but also what turns us on when it comes to good men (and vice-versa, of course).
a place i can call home
July 11, 2010
Caution – a word contained in a picture below may not be suitable for all audiences and may be deemed inappropriate and offensive by most. Except Brits. Consider yourself warned.
Jenny and I hardly squeezed our way through the door of Carman’s Country Kitchen (11th and Wharton, Friday-Monday, 8am-2pm), partly due to our ample backsides, but mostly because of the large crowd of people waiting to eat and trying to beat the sweltering 102 degree heat outside. A staple in the South Philly brunch scene, and one of the primary members of the Philadelphia “brunch belt,” Carman’s is basically just a small room with three tables (accommodating 2-3 each) and two counters (adding another 9-10 seats). It’s rumored that larger parties are able to sit in the bed of Carman’s pickup that’s parked outside, but I haven’t seen it in my many passes by.
We had made a reservation (it’s recommended), but were told by the waiter (who we later found out was Carman’s son, Jaret) that we’d still have a 10-15 minute wait. (Carman offers everyone coffee while they wait, so you don’t have to sacrifice your caffeine addiction in order to get a seat.) Four minutes later, we settled into our seats at the far end of the counter near the door, taking in the atmosphere of the place, which was full of tchotchkes (mostly of the sexual variety) and signs of all types, many of them bearing the motto of the restaurant.
are there 16 of them? are they 16 years old? and what exactly does "smart" mean?
jaret has been sufficiently guilt tripped into being helpful.
enough. said.
***If it isn’t yet obvious, you probably don’t want to bring your kids here, unless you’re a bad parent.***
Each day at Carman’s there are four menu items – a pancake/belgian waffle dish, a challah french toast dish, an omelet, and a special. As someone who truly struggles at brunch to make the choice between sweet and savory, I was thankful that Jenny wanted to share so my tastebuds could be fully satisfied. We opted for the challah french toast with jersey blueberries and south carolina peaches and the special – a large piece of shrimp with crab grits, two eggs any way you want them, yukon gold home fries and toast. We also had coffee (of course) and sides of bacon and homemade country sausage. (I know good sausage, and Carman’s is right up there with the best I’ve ever had. It’s definitely worth the $2. Don’t skip it.)
mmm...french toast.
this was much more tasty than the picture implies. the grits had so much crab it was shocking.
Almost everything was absolutely delicious (though I’ll admit that I’ve had better potatoes in my day), and I ended up feeling full but not uncomfortable. Unfortunately, Jenny wasn’t quite so lucky – “I’m so full that when I sneezed, I felt like I was going to vomit.” (That’s what she gets for having a cold and a weak immune system.)
Overall, the mix of the over the top inappropriateness and unintentional kitschiness made me feel right at home. Carman cooks every dish, making it feel as though you’re at an eccentric aunt’s house for breakfast. To me, that’s comfort at its finest.
