Oh Diary,
Kringlemash is in crusty, drippy swing! I have been tirelessly decorating; wherever I step, I leave festive prints! How I do love the additional adhesive traction (it makes the fits a little easier to control), plus it gives the help something to do (we must all do our part to make sure the help doesn't skip out on the Kringlemash festivities).
Diary, I have been so busy preparing for the arrival of Santathulu! I have been looking over and over for the ingredients needed to make the customary "milk and corrupted gingerbread of greatest contempt." I may need to make a visit to the chappy sister, the Gilmer? and the manwich. Perhaps they have some more "Salamanderision" or "Batrocity" they were sold out of both last time I went...they did have a lot of "Felicentiousness." Anyways, I will take care of the nefarious baking after I finish preparing for tonight's "Kringlemash Bash!"
Yes Diary, I shall be attending this years first annual "K-B!" We threw it together once Unca Macbeth's singing cat choir unexpectedly came up short. Apparently, Sargeant Catnip, Admiral Ackbar, Colonel Curtezy, Staff Sergeant Macgillicutty, and Percy all went missing.
His loss shall be my gain; this Kringlemash Bash will be an unequivocal success! We shall have all the Kringle one could wish for, lots of help to threaten (with the customary broken bottles, broom handles, and freshly lit Kringarettes), traditional Santathulu mouth pieces, and games of "pin the rudimentary wings on Santathulu."
There will be stories of the first Kringlemash (Some burly Celt was table dancing when he inadvertently planted his offending foot right into the king's kringle, which resulted in a terribly awkward blood-bath. Thus Kringlemash was born! the stomping on the Kringle represents the "biting of our thumbs" at "the man;" the cherry filling is for the blood those first accidental patriots shed for the cause. The jujubes are for taste.). There will be carousing and making of merry for hours upon end. How did I procure an invitation you might ask? Well...I worked a deal with the chappy ones in that I shall pledge them the dearest thing to me (" a soul, preferably" they hinted) and in return they shall cast a spell that lowers my voice two whole octaves! Surely a man with such a burly voice will be let into the K-B without question!
*I had to use my acting abilities to convince them that DonalBORING is the dearest thing to me in the world. I pledged my poor brother's soul in exchange for the voice, which should last at LEAST 15 hours, so I think it's a fair trade.*
Diary, I am most excited for the "feeler-flowers" hung over the doorpost. The flowers are slightly scaly and slimy, but when under one you must "awaken the dead" with whoever happens to wander under its limp tendrils. I KNOW for a fact that Lady MacD shall be there tonight...Perhaps tonight I shall get my kiss? We shall see. It would be a Kringlmash miracle after all, and if a miracle won't happen on Kringlemash-when will it happen!?
Showing posts with label Slavs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Slavs. Show all posts
Friday, December 11, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
Making A List, Checking It Thrice
Oh, Diary! I wish you so many returns of the day!
Though really, I've never understood the point of such a greeting. "Many returns of the day." That seems incredibly counter-productive. Imagine, Diary, that I said such a thing to Unca Banquo! Would I be wishing him into some kind of repetitive loop? Why would I be so rude? What if he'd just completed an important task down at the whore mill? He'd have to do all that exhausting work all over again. Again and again and again. The poor man would be spent like a tarnished nickel. Admittedly, he does dabble in more than a little recreational time travel, but that's his own doing and I will not stand in his way. As a free and proud Scot, he has a right to indulge in the occasional irregularity.
(Unless, of course, he starts involving the clergy. That can get a bit sticky.)
But enough of my prabbling on. We've better things to do, dear Diary. We have to make ... a LIST! But not just any list. This is a Wish List for the most stupendous and wonderfulest day of the year! That's right, dear Diary. I can only be talking about ...
KRINGLEMASH! The day when all Scots children hop out of their beds and find their slippers filled with the sugary sweet goodness known as Kringle! How fun it is to shove one's wee toes into freshly baked pastry! All the while, their parents or legal guardians are standing there in the doorway, shouting in faux fury with a frosting-coated spatula in each hand. "MASH THAT KRINGLE! MASH THAT KRINGLE! MASH-MASH-MASH THAT KRINGLE"
Oh, you've never known such joy and terror in equal measure, dear Diary. Primarily, you are ignorant of this because you are an inanimate object possessing no soul or consciousness. But moreover, you do not have legs or feet!
And while I've outgrown most of the Kringlemash traditions -- including the subsequent "Hot Mead Sling-n-Dodge" where the children must make their way downstairs through a gauntlet of elders and older brothers and sisters, diving left and right to avoid incoming missiles of expectorated liquid -- I can still participate in the yearly "Threatening of the Help." What fun for all! Seeing as the Slavs and other assorted helplings are all fitted with merry bells year-'round (so as to know they're coming, says Lady Lennox), the official Threatening of the Help Carol goes like this:
Oh, me shoes is full o' Kringle,
And me clothes is soak'd wi' Mead!
Gimme a gif' wi' a grin n' jingle,
Afore I makes ya bleed!
Isn't that just joyous? It is. And so, you go from servant to servant, collecting presents and gifts all the while.
And so ... I've to start my Wish List -- which will then be taken to the Slavs, who will naturally impart my deepest material desires to their Great and Ferocious Thing-God, SANTATHULHU.
Or so I've heard. I really don't care about the cosmic bits, just so long as I get my prezzies. And I think I will start my list with a simple wish for a chapeau. Which do you think will suit me better, Diary? The Antilles is quite fetching, but I'm leaning positively side-saddle toward the Big Buck!
Oh, almost forgot. I've an appointment with my alienist this afternoon, so I'll leave off here. I do so love talking to the alienist. I yammer on and on, he writes things down and if I stop, he says "Please go on." And then, just before he gives me a handful of peppermint pills, he checks my head for fresh knots. It tickles!
Yours in mental health, Diary! Ta!
Y.B.P.M.
Though really, I've never understood the point of such a greeting. "Many returns of the day." That seems incredibly counter-productive. Imagine, Diary, that I said such a thing to Unca Banquo! Would I be wishing him into some kind of repetitive loop? Why would I be so rude? What if he'd just completed an important task down at the whore mill? He'd have to do all that exhausting work all over again. Again and again and again. The poor man would be spent like a tarnished nickel. Admittedly, he does dabble in more than a little recreational time travel, but that's his own doing and I will not stand in his way. As a free and proud Scot, he has a right to indulge in the occasional irregularity.
(Unless, of course, he starts involving the clergy. That can get a bit sticky.)
But enough of my prabbling on. We've better things to do, dear Diary. We have to make ... a LIST! But not just any list. This is a Wish List for the most stupendous and wonderfulest day of the year! That's right, dear Diary. I can only be talking about ...
KRINGLEMASH! The day when all Scots children hop out of their beds and find their slippers filled with the sugary sweet goodness known as Kringle! How fun it is to shove one's wee toes into freshly baked pastry! All the while, their parents or legal guardians are standing there in the doorway, shouting in faux fury with a frosting-coated spatula in each hand. "MASH THAT KRINGLE! MASH THAT KRINGLE! MASH-MASH-MASH THAT KRINGLE"
Oh, you've never known such joy and terror in equal measure, dear Diary. Primarily, you are ignorant of this because you are an inanimate object possessing no soul or consciousness. But moreover, you do not have legs or feet!
And while I've outgrown most of the Kringlemash traditions -- including the subsequent "Hot Mead Sling-n-Dodge" where the children must make their way downstairs through a gauntlet of elders and older brothers and sisters, diving left and right to avoid incoming missiles of expectorated liquid -- I can still participate in the yearly "Threatening of the Help." What fun for all! Seeing as the Slavs and other assorted helplings are all fitted with merry bells year-'round (so as to know they're coming, says Lady Lennox), the official Threatening of the Help Carol goes like this:
Oh, me shoes is full o' Kringle,
And me clothes is soak'd wi' Mead!
Gimme a gif' wi' a grin n' jingle,
Afore I makes ya bleed!
Isn't that just joyous? It is. And so, you go from servant to servant, collecting presents and gifts all the while.
And so ... I've to start my Wish List -- which will then be taken to the Slavs, who will naturally impart my deepest material desires to their Great and Ferocious Thing-God, SANTATHULHU.
Or so I've heard. I really don't care about the cosmic bits, just so long as I get my prezzies. And I think I will start my list with a simple wish for a chapeau. Which do you think will suit me better, Diary? The Antilles is quite fetching, but I'm leaning positively side-saddle toward the Big Buck!
Oh, almost forgot. I've an appointment with my alienist this afternoon, so I'll leave off here. I do so love talking to the alienist. I yammer on and on, he writes things down and if I stop, he says "Please go on." And then, just before he gives me a handful of peppermint pills, he checks my head for fresh knots. It tickles!
Yours in mental health, Diary! Ta!
Y.B.P.M.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
A Very Special Dear Malcolm's Diary Thanksgiving Special (subtitle: GRAVY!)
Oh DIARY!
Today, more than ever, how I miss dear Cook.
Shim and me would always spend the day before Thanksgiving preparing the traditional Slavic Scottish Southern cuisine of our people for all the household to enjoy. Oh, how I used to love helping Shim roll the burek and slice the apples for Shim's specialty...Deep Fried Apple Haggis.
MMMM, my tum-tum just rumbles to think of it. It seems however we will not be celebrating tomorrow, since we've yet to replace Cook. In fact, I can't remember the last time I ate something OTHER than noodles. As it is, I've been SO busy re-decorating my room to serve as the "Front Office" of The GoodShip Bros. High Adventure Ballooning Initiative Company Corporation Cooperative LLC that I nearly forgot about it all together. Though, now my mind begins to wander back to Thanksgivings past....
The celebration of the peaceful treaty between the visiting Slavs and our people is certainly timeless. Oh, how DonalBORING and I used to love playing games with our traditional Slavic handmade marbles. And Mother, dear Mother, never looked so lovely as when she donned her costume from the old country.
Nothing said Thanksgiving like Mother in a tartan, a Celtic sword round her waist (still covered in sow's blood) sipping on a mint julep at sunset in the back garden.
:::sigh:::
Alas. It seems I shall have to sing the Slavs and Scots of Ye Olde Louisiana Battle Hymn to you and you alone, my dear diary.
In other news, I have successfully applied for a "Business License" under the name of Young Siward. I'm just assuming his first name is "Young" as I've yet to hear otherwise. Although, now that I think about it that is rather odd.
Thinking of Collard Kotlety Pozharskie Smokies,
Y.B.P.M
Today, more than ever, how I miss dear Cook.
Shim and me would always spend the day before Thanksgiving preparing the traditional Slavic Scottish Southern cuisine of our people for all the household to enjoy. Oh, how I used to love helping Shim roll the burek and slice the apples for Shim's specialty...Deep Fried Apple Haggis.
MMMM, my tum-tum just rumbles to think of it. It seems however we will not be celebrating tomorrow, since we've yet to replace Cook. In fact, I can't remember the last time I ate something OTHER than noodles. As it is, I've been SO busy re-decorating my room to serve as the "Front Office" of The GoodShip Bros. High Adventure Ballooning Initiative Company Corporation Cooperative LLC that I nearly forgot about it all together. Though, now my mind begins to wander back to Thanksgivings past....
The celebration of the peaceful treaty between the visiting Slavs and our people is certainly timeless. Oh, how DonalBORING and I used to love playing games with our traditional Slavic handmade marbles. And Mother, dear Mother, never looked so lovely as when she donned her costume from the old country.
Nothing said Thanksgiving like Mother in a tartan, a Celtic sword round her waist (still covered in sow's blood) sipping on a mint julep at sunset in the back garden.
:::sigh:::
Alas. It seems I shall have to sing the Slavs and Scots of Ye Olde Louisiana Battle Hymn to you and you alone, my dear diary.
In other news, I have successfully applied for a "Business License" under the name of Young Siward. I'm just assuming his first name is "Young" as I've yet to hear otherwise. Although, now that I think about it that is rather odd.
Thinking of Collard Kotlety Pozharskie Smokies,
Y.B.P.M
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Unca Macbeth...cat person?
Dear Diary,
I went outside for my 2 p.m. fit yesterday. I must admit that it was for purely selfish reasons. True, it is an embarrassment to collapse into a puddle of my own tears and awkwardly try to catalogue them whilst my hands involuntarily spasm, BUT what could be more pitiful? If my sultry "Touched Tomboy Next Door" (TTND from here on out...you know...for secrets) were to come upon me in a tizzy, surely she would try to comfort me, right?
Anyway, as I was removing rocks, pointy sticks, and bits of broken bottles of the Slavic giggle water," I noticed Unca Macbeth out in the ol' sandlot. I didn't know Unca Macbeth was such an avid practitioner of athletics! He had set up the ol' sandlot for a game of t-ball. Surely, he wanted me to join the festivities! I was beginning to walk over when two p.m. hit and I began to have my fit. When I awoke, Unca Macbeth's game was already taking place. Feeling a little bruised that Gilmer was not around and also that my fit went unobserved (why have them then if no one is there to observe I ask!), I gathered myself and walked over to the field.
Before I turned the corner I heard Unca Macbeth shout "Gorammit Mittens! Stop playing with the ball! Mr. JuJu is gong to score! Oh, no! Leave the field, just leave. Where's your head!? Dr. Fluffy McPantaloons, fill in for Mittens!" I couldn't believe my eyes! Unca Macbeth had trained his many cats to play T-ball. I have heard of horse whisperers, but never have I heard of cat-whisperers.
I was going to ask Unca if I too might learn his most incredible gift (imagine what wooing wonders I could perform with a trained kitty!), but before I could, Mittens-who had had quite enough of Unca's smart talk-began to bite at his ankles. Well, needless to say that emptied both dugouts and an all out brawl began to ensue. My gentle stomach couldn't handle such violence, so I ran back to the house.
I must get unca Macbeth to teach me the secret to Cat-Whispering. With an army of adorable pussycats at my control, I can win the heart of...well, I probably better make up my mind first.
Yours,
Y.B.P.M.
I went outside for my 2 p.m. fit yesterday. I must admit that it was for purely selfish reasons. True, it is an embarrassment to collapse into a puddle of my own tears and awkwardly try to catalogue them whilst my hands involuntarily spasm, BUT what could be more pitiful? If my sultry "Touched Tomboy Next Door" (TTND from here on out...you know...for secrets) were to come upon me in a tizzy, surely she would try to comfort me, right?
Anyway, as I was removing rocks, pointy sticks, and bits of broken bottles of the Slavic giggle water," I noticed Unca Macbeth out in the ol' sandlot. I didn't know Unca Macbeth was such an avid practitioner of athletics! He had set up the ol' sandlot for a game of t-ball. Surely, he wanted me to join the festivities! I was beginning to walk over when two p.m. hit and I began to have my fit. When I awoke, Unca Macbeth's game was already taking place. Feeling a little bruised that Gilmer was not around and also that my fit went unobserved (why have them then if no one is there to observe I ask!), I gathered myself and walked over to the field.
Before I turned the corner I heard Unca Macbeth shout "Gorammit Mittens! Stop playing with the ball! Mr. JuJu is gong to score! Oh, no! Leave the field, just leave. Where's your head!? Dr. Fluffy McPantaloons, fill in for Mittens!" I couldn't believe my eyes! Unca Macbeth had trained his many cats to play T-ball. I have heard of horse whisperers, but never have I heard of cat-whisperers.
I was going to ask Unca if I too might learn his most incredible gift (imagine what wooing wonders I could perform with a trained kitty!), but before I could, Mittens-who had had quite enough of Unca's smart talk-began to bite at his ankles. Well, needless to say that emptied both dugouts and an all out brawl began to ensue. My gentle stomach couldn't handle such violence, so I ran back to the house.
I must get unca Macbeth to teach me the secret to Cat-Whispering. With an army of adorable pussycats at my control, I can win the heart of...well, I probably better make up my mind first.
Yours,
Y.B.P.M.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Work, work, work and a poop bush.
Dear Diary,
What an eventful week! I feel as if I'm slightly hollow, now. As if some integral part of my existence has since evaporated into the deep-dark abysm of time. I hope it's not getting La Gripe again. ANYWAYS (diary, I get so distracted sometimes...but you never fail to re-direct me; a papyrus Ritalin of joy you are.), yesterday Father was absent but left me chores to do. I had to work with a motley crew of nobles, Young Siward, "men of dubious morality...especially in the realm of knifing," and an androgynous man-witch (hmmm...suddenly craving spaghetti sauce on a hoagie) . It was an odd assortment to be sure.
I imagine that father wanted me to be exposed to hard labor and the "rougher element" because he says I too much resemble my saintly mother, only softer. Father said if I was good, he would return with my horse (whom I have decided to name "Madge"), so I set out with my wagon to help.
I was relegated to spare lumber removal. I loaded up my wagon (now named "Clyde"...the man-witch had an odd affinity for distributing nicknames...upon hearing me called "Bonny Prince Malcolm," I became "Bonnie." He thought the juxtaposition hilarious) and began to cart lumber back and forth. I was in terrible spirits Diary. I wanted to join the group of manly men with their devil-may-care clothing, their sweat-stained hats, their ability to lift more than a quarter of their own body weight, but ALAS. I just knew they were making fun of me by giving me a sledge hammer to nail in some errant staples. I was very low. My anger grew, my pulse raced, and my voice cracked from the strain. I had had ENOUGH! With Clyde at my side I began to feverishly pummel a bit of leafy screen into a mangled corpse of PVC and camo netting. I looked up and all my co-laborers (which, by the way, where were the Slavs in all this?!) stared in awe-faced amusement. I gave a final "Harumph!" in the direction of the tattered ruin and swaggered away in triumph.
Diary! SQUEE! They had finally accepted me! They invited me out to a tavern afterwords! Oh, I was feeling quite high on the proverbial hog. I was going to have a cold, malty beverage of sorts (perhaps something denoting my inevitable rise to royal status, like a "Surely Temple.") tell sordid stories (I would have to rely on my imagination for this one...as my illustratively educational etchings were at home), and generally cause a rumpus! Oh the times we would have had, had not some errant knave (probably Y.S.) decided to make a nasty in the bushes approaching the tavern. Diary, my very blood seemed to be contaminated by this unholy odor. it was oppressively potent. Everyone simply made a face and continued on, I tried but my gentle olfactory bulb nearly perished in the attempt! I was so overwhelmed that I simply sat on the ground and cried. I don't know how long I cried for but when I stopped, my co-laborers were exiting the tavern all stumbly-like. Also, it was now nighttime. I had lost all manly respect points I might have gained. I am sure Young Siward planned this...it would explain why he was late?
Though, on a side note, Y.S. seemed to be possessed and controlled by some daemon that had taken up residency in his hand. He was looking at it and, well, "communicating" with it as well. needless to say, I was mortified. Perhaps Y.S. isn't so bad after all, just possessed by a demonic presence. I must study up on demonology.
Until I am known to Woman,
B.P.M.
P.S. Just yanking your chain, I couldn't leave you for that long.
What an eventful week! I feel as if I'm slightly hollow, now. As if some integral part of my existence has since evaporated into the deep-dark abysm of time. I hope it's not getting La Gripe again. ANYWAYS (diary, I get so distracted sometimes...but you never fail to re-direct me; a papyrus Ritalin of joy you are.), yesterday Father was absent but left me chores to do. I had to work with a motley crew of nobles, Young Siward, "men of dubious morality...especially in the realm of knifing," and an androgynous man-witch (hmmm...suddenly craving spaghetti sauce on a hoagie) . It was an odd assortment to be sure.
I imagine that father wanted me to be exposed to hard labor and the "rougher element" because he says I too much resemble my saintly mother, only softer. Father said if I was good, he would return with my horse (whom I have decided to name "Madge"), so I set out with my wagon to help.
I was relegated to spare lumber removal. I loaded up my wagon (now named "Clyde"...the man-witch had an odd affinity for distributing nicknames...upon hearing me called "Bonny Prince Malcolm," I became "Bonnie." He thought the juxtaposition hilarious) and began to cart lumber back and forth. I was in terrible spirits Diary. I wanted to join the group of manly men with their devil-may-care clothing, their sweat-stained hats, their ability to lift more than a quarter of their own body weight, but ALAS. I just knew they were making fun of me by giving me a sledge hammer to nail in some errant staples. I was very low. My anger grew, my pulse raced, and my voice cracked from the strain. I had had ENOUGH! With Clyde at my side I began to feverishly pummel a bit of leafy screen into a mangled corpse of PVC and camo netting. I looked up and all my co-laborers (which, by the way, where were the Slavs in all this?!) stared in awe-faced amusement. I gave a final "Harumph!" in the direction of the tattered ruin and swaggered away in triumph.
Diary! SQUEE! They had finally accepted me! They invited me out to a tavern afterwords! Oh, I was feeling quite high on the proverbial hog. I was going to have a cold, malty beverage of sorts (perhaps something denoting my inevitable rise to royal status, like a "Surely Temple.") tell sordid stories (I would have to rely on my imagination for this one...as my illustratively educational etchings were at home), and generally cause a rumpus! Oh the times we would have had, had not some errant knave (probably Y.S.) decided to make a nasty in the bushes approaching the tavern. Diary, my very blood seemed to be contaminated by this unholy odor. it was oppressively potent. Everyone simply made a face and continued on, I tried but my gentle olfactory bulb nearly perished in the attempt! I was so overwhelmed that I simply sat on the ground and cried. I don't know how long I cried for but when I stopped, my co-laborers were exiting the tavern all stumbly-like. Also, it was now nighttime. I had lost all manly respect points I might have gained. I am sure Young Siward planned this...it would explain why he was late?
Though, on a side note, Y.S. seemed to be possessed and controlled by some daemon that had taken up residency in his hand. He was looking at it and, well, "communicating" with it as well. needless to say, I was mortified. Perhaps Y.S. isn't so bad after all, just possessed by a demonic presence. I must study up on demonology.
Until I am known to Woman,
B.P.M.
P.S. Just yanking your chain, I couldn't leave you for that long.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Moving Day
Diary!
My mid-morning festivities have been ruined! I was curled up under a mountain of blankets, with only my dainty nose protruding, watching Cary Elwes videos when Father came bursting in the room and told me, "for the love of whatever slight degree of manliness you posses, get your clothes on and get to work!"
It was moving day dear Diary! And just for the record, all exclamation points from here on out are not motivated by my customary jubilant glee but a most poignant angst. Father was receiving a new shipment of Slavs and forced me to help them move their stuff. Ugh. Why do we have to keep Slavs in the first place? It's not like the historic rosemary bush takes much looking after!
They come with all their babushkas and sad, shuffling dirges, their hand-made marbles and their borsht. I don't want to be racialist dear Diary, but what are they doing here? Father says that they are "hired workers," but they never seem to leave! Normally when one does a job, one goes home at the end of the day...right? But they NEVER LEAVE!
I believe they may be a bad influence on me! They drink funny tasting water out by the shed (it doesn't really smell like anything, looks like water, but it tastes like skinning your knee!) They gamble with their homemade marbles, and try to get me to eat their strange cuisine. They do have one dish I enjoy, however, "rolled burek." I don't know what a burek is or why they roll it, but Diary, it tastes unbelieveable (*FYI dearest Diary, my exclamation points have now become marks connotating succulant delight*)! Oh diary, I salivate at the thought of their supple baked bread mounds enveloping such tender, seasoned meats! Sometimes they come in pairs; sometimes there are scallions, Dear Diary, SCALLIONS! I am suddenly reminded of Lady MacD. Hm...odd. Perhaps I have solved my previous entry's delimma?
"rolled burek?"
Yours,
Y.P.M.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Motani_burek_1.gif
My mid-morning festivities have been ruined! I was curled up under a mountain of blankets, with only my dainty nose protruding, watching Cary Elwes videos when Father came bursting in the room and told me, "for the love of whatever slight degree of manliness you posses, get your clothes on and get to work!"
It was moving day dear Diary! And just for the record, all exclamation points from here on out are not motivated by my customary jubilant glee but a most poignant angst. Father was receiving a new shipment of Slavs and forced me to help them move their stuff. Ugh. Why do we have to keep Slavs in the first place? It's not like the historic rosemary bush takes much looking after!
They come with all their babushkas and sad, shuffling dirges, their hand-made marbles and their borsht. I don't want to be racialist dear Diary, but what are they doing here? Father says that they are "hired workers," but they never seem to leave! Normally when one does a job, one goes home at the end of the day...right? But they NEVER LEAVE!
I believe they may be a bad influence on me! They drink funny tasting water out by the shed (it doesn't really smell like anything, looks like water, but it tastes like skinning your knee!) They gamble with their homemade marbles, and try to get me to eat their strange cuisine. They do have one dish I enjoy, however, "rolled burek." I don't know what a burek is or why they roll it, but Diary, it tastes unbelieveable (*FYI dearest Diary, my exclamation points have now become marks connotating succulant delight*)! Oh diary, I salivate at the thought of their supple baked bread mounds enveloping such tender, seasoned meats! Sometimes they come in pairs; sometimes there are scallions, Dear Diary, SCALLIONS! I am suddenly reminded of Lady MacD. Hm...odd. Perhaps I have solved my previous entry's delimma?
"rolled burek?"
Yours,
Y.P.M.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Motani_burek_1.gif
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