I may not come up with the recipes, but I can follow directions and wield a mean wooden spoon.
DING DONG. KNOCK KNOCK. PALEO FANATIC AT YOUR DOOR. I can see you hiding behind your coat rack. Open up so I can throw away your gluten.
By the end of the night everyone was speaking with a drawl and swapping stories about the mud flaps on their pickup trucks.
Yes, the post eventually addresses its own title, but you’ll have to wade through some cultural observations first.
I cooked and they ate and a swarm of pigs flew over the house.
You like apples? How about you wash these apples.
No, Paleolithic humans did not have slow cookers. I beat you to your zinger, TYRANT.
Because wrestling a pig in a puddle of mud does not sound like fun to me.
I am the parental equivalent of the black jelly bean.