Brought to you by the word 'rhubarb'
I was over at your house last night, I don't know if you noticed. A pie-making mood overtook me suddenly, and I needed rhubarb. That strange-looking plant on your teenager's windowsill was the closest I could find. I sent the pie to your sick husband in the hospital. I hope that you don't mind, you don't worry, you know - That story about the leaves being poisonous isn't any account, and anyway, I didn't use 'em much. Thanks for the 1/2 cup of sugar last week - I was making muffins. Barbara, I was wondering, I know this is awkward, but do you have any human extract? I'm plumb out and, well, I probably shouldn't say this, but Jiff Bellows invited me over for a Pig Party at his place and asked me to make him some Man Loaf. They say human meat isn't fit to eat anymore, so I'm hoping to get by with just the extract. It may not be pure, but it seems like people are the only thing that give my loaf the right spring. It just flattens out, elsewise. Once I got a hunk of the mayor -- all the rest of 'em chose him over them, you know, that makes him quality I guess ... Who'da thought but that bread just had the loveliest color! Looking at it, it was easy to forget that it wasn't non-fat.
Anyway, look at me go on and on - I just meant this to be a neighborly letter. A nice, friendly, pleasant and wholesome sort of 'in person' neighborly letter, you know what I mean, Barbara? Now you must give me your family recipe for 'Peasant Under Glass.'
See you at the bake-off on Sunday!
