How Dare You Mock Me, Punchfork

Hello, ducklings. So thanks to the incredible Internet invention known as Stumble Upon, I have discovered an amazing website. It’s called Punchfork. Basically, it’s a gallery of the most delicious, savory, jaw-dropping recipes gathered from all over the web. About twice a week, I succumb to temptation and spend an hour or two combing through the site, taking note of the more appetizing concoctions and fantasizing about a day in the distant future in which I will have the money to spend on fancy cheese and fresh herbs (organic, obviously).

“Ooh,” I drool, “look at this three-cheese lasagna with balsamic vinaigrette.”

“What’s this? Homemade creamy dreamsicles with orange zest and almond milk?”

“Oh my god...is that a flatbread made with mushrooms, pesto, and kalamata olives?!”

I work myself up into a frenzy at all of these culinary delights. My cursor flits frantically from dish to dish. Inside my head, I envision a bright and shining future in which I am the proud owner of an enormous pantry, an even larger kitchen, and of course a garden filled with so much produce that I could feed the entire population of Rhode Island. In this hypothetical future, I am a chef extraordinaire. I create exotic Asian dishes with the help of my wok. My soufflés are so light and fluffy that they taste like magic-airy-dream-clouds. I often feel the need to return to my roots and prepare extravagant Southern feasts, complete with buttermilk biscuits, fried okra and squash, black eyed peas, and juicy, melt-in-your-mouth blackberry cobbler topped with a generous scoop of homemade vanilla ice cream.

My cooking prowess knows no bounds! I am a god amongst mere mortals! Grown men and women weep tears of exquisite joy when they taste my creations, and countries go to war over who is allowed my table scraps! My culinary expertise enables me to RULE THE WORLD with an iron fist and seductively sweet shortcake! LOOK UPON MY MIGHTY PASTA AND DESPAIR.

I entertain this fantasy for a while. Then, of course, I sigh, close my laptop, and trudge to my tiny, dim-lit kitchen that looks as if it belongs on the set of Saw. I prepare yet another dish of Kraft macaroni and cheese. I eat it slowly and remorsefully.

“Soon,” I whisper. “Soon.”