I’m writing this blog, sitting on a screened-in porch, listening to a southern gothic music compilation, and wearing cowboy boots. All that’s missing is a boyfriend with a red pickup truck who’s cheating on me with someone five to seven years younger. Man, I wish I had more time in Tennessee.
My goal was to describe the magic of Dollywood and Graceland, the crunch of a hot chicken sandwich, and the band I saw that consisted of three men who looked exactly like Casey Affleck…the handsome farmer I was ready to buy half a steer off of just to get close to; but I can’t do it justice.
So, instead I’m go eat some BBQ get drunk.
The Lunchadora 
If you don’t want to go through the effort of cutting up a chicken you can make the Colombian version of this dish:
http://www.mycolombianrecipes.com/salchichas-en-coca-cola-hotdogs-in-coke
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Are you going to make this one? I’m intrigued. I think this is much more likely to taste “good”(?) than the lobster salad (sorry Justin).
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Also – re: Carrie Underwood. I’ve always thought that all seems to make sense except…carving her name into the leather seats. It seems like asking for prosecution.
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I have fantasies of vandalising the property of men who have rejected me, but little experience. You’re right though, this seems like a poor plan.
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I might. Cola isn’t exactly paleo, but you’ve seen the way I eat when nobody’s looking.
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