Your leaking thatched hut during the restoration of a pre-Enlightenment state.

 

Hello, my name is Judas Gutenberg and this is my blaag (pronounced as you would the vomit noise "hyroop-bleuach").



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   the fragrance of artificial lemon juice
Wednesday, July 7 2021
After work today, I was planning on cooking dinner, as Gretchen (who had been had the bhad reacted badly to nobody preparing dinner when she got home from work Monday evening. But apparently she'd made even more of a stink with Powerful, who hadn't prepared a dinner in weeks, and when I went down to the kitchen to start cooking he said that he was cooking dinner tonight. So I decided to spend my evening installing brakes on his Prius instead. I had him bring it over near the garage so the air hose would reach, as I've recently come to appreciate the value of a good air wrench when working on automobiles that weren't built in the past decade. With the proper tools, replacing the pads and rotors on a car turns out not to be that arduous of a job, and I had no problem replacing both front brake surfaces before nightfall (or the threatening thunderstorm, whichever arrived first).
I took a break in between the brakes to have dinner with Gretchen and Powerful, eating the strange food the latter had come up with. I could tell I wasn't going to love it just from the smell in the kitchen, a smell I've had a bad association with ever since I smelled it coming from a tenant's kitchen when that tenant was suffering from cancer, an association that formed an indelible mark in my brain. I've smelled it since then occasionally when Powerful has cooked, and I've never been about to trace its source. Was it sage? Ot perhaps thyme? Powerful's dish was built around Italian spaghetti, though the sauce was a strange creamy mix of vegan cheese, tempeh bits, and bamboo shoots. (I'm not kidding! This might be the only time in history a cheese sauce was put on a bamboo shoot.) On the side, Powerful had prepared marinaded pieces of tofu, and part of the marinade was some sort of reconstitued (or perhaps artificial) lemon juice. It turned out that the smell I didn't like was coming from that juice, which Gretchen insists is mostly made of chemicals unrelated to actual lemons. Perhaps my bad association with this fragrance dates to an incident involving ancient lemon pepper that Gretchen had made the mistake of using that first summer we'd stayed on Lake Edward back in the Adirondacks back in 2012. Gretchen had warned Powerful not to use that fake lemon juice in any dish designed to be eaten by her, so perhaps this was his passive-aggressive reaction to being told he needed to occasionally cook us a fucking meal. Despite all this, I was hungry, and managed to eat a fair amount of what Powerful had prepared.


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