Yesterday, my friend Becky and I walked into the house and were greeted by the delicious smell of warm cinnamon. "Mmm... are you making cinnamon toast?" I called out to Gllen. Becky started to salivate and we curiously peeked into the kitchen to see what he was making (vultures started to circle too). Gllen was bippin and boppin around the kitchen, pulling things from the fridge, adjusting a pan on the stove. In a passive way that warrants no interruption from his task he tells us that he's making grilled cheese.
Becky and I are slightly confused. We hound him with inquiries like, "Why does it smell like delicious cinnamon toast in here?" Finally, he holds up a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread and says, "I'm using this." Becky is incredulous - she is horrified and has to confirm what she sees before her eyes - "You're making grilled cheese on cinnamon toast?" I'm am not as alarmed. He likes to combine cheese with things. I laugh it off in a way that sort of says Oh Becky, you naive thing!
It wasn't until Gllen sat down next to me that my lips pulled back into a disgusted grimace. On his plate was the cinnamon raisin grilled cheese and a GIANT GLOB of ranch dressing that he was dipping into. Shudder. This is taking it too far. I can only turn away and try not to watch him greedily shove it into his face.
