David has an older divorced sister, C, who has some divorced guy who comes over and gives it to her when she's feeling the itch. Apparently, he's good at it. So much so that afterwards, she feels so good, so pepped up, so full of the verve for living she gets into that kitchen and she cooks up a storm like a mad thing. And she sends it over to us. Home made Greek cooking, none of us are going to turn it down. Dolmades, moussaka, lamb, I'm sure you get the picture. (There's only one thing I like more than Greek boys...)
Now, we're trying to eat healthily. Sensible diet. No deserts, as Mark W would say. Shane and I, that is. David eats anything and everything.
David arrives home with a giant platter, Saturday night, held out with both hands.
"It must have been a marathon," says David. He whips the tinfoil off...
"Carnage!" I say. "Jasus Xist!"
"Lucky to walk again," says David.
"Fuck me!" says Shane. "Can I have this guys number?"
We stare down at a platter covered in rocky road slice, cheesecake and poppy seed cake. Food for fucking days!
OMG! We've been eating it ever since.
I'm heading to the toilet nightly to practice my Bulimia skills. Three fingers right down and there's no gagging.
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