Did I mention crab salad? CRAB SALAD. With Old Bay Seasoning courtesy of Jane, that’s crab salad.
The debate rages on about who loves who(m) more. When I say “All the way,” Magda wants to know how far that is. All the way where? “To the Crab Nebula,” I reply. “And back.”
“How far is that?”
“Well, I love you more than that.” Really? More than 4 kiloparsecs? Permit me to doubt.
(And yes, we realize that using units of distance in our attempts to quantify the unquantifiable in this debate is a questionable practice, but lots of questionable practices go on in our place.)
“Yes,” she says. “I love you to the Crab Nebula and back times infinity.”
The infinity argument being unwinnable, I have to substitute salad for nebula. If forced to choose between crab salad and Magda, she would win hands down.
Even now that we have Old Bay Seasoning in the house.
Interesting. My wife and I normally don’t get past about 4. Sometimes 4.125 if I’ve cooked dinner and done the dishes.
Do you remember nothing from your high school science classes? What’s important here is the unit. The scalar quantity is irrelevant.
I must admit I worried a little that the OBS might disrupt the marriage but I figured if any two people could work it out, it would be you guys. I’m so very relieved.
Dude(s), it ain’t nothin’ without the bun. “Crab salad sandwich. On a bun!”
And that’s what we’ll say on the sign.
You realize, of course, that this is the final evidence that you are hopelessly gay. Coffin: Nailed.
Before the end of the month, I plan to ship off a package with Christmas presents for you and Magda. (Timely, no? The rooster sauce and, more to the point, its voluminous bubblewrap, edged them out of your tiny holiday package.)
If you have any exotic pantry requests, drop me a line and I’ll see what I can shoehorn into this shipment. Curry paste? Peeps? Peeps, a hollow chocolate bunny, and Cadbury eggs, so you can make an Easter turducken?