Ali Baba's chicken was face down in fervent religious humility. The vegetables were swimming in a decadent bath of curry and coconut milk and really had very little to say, even to one another. They were communing on a higher level but it came off as aloofness.
Field to Fork and was sunning itself in the last few rays of a sunny March day.
This post brought you by the letter A, and the prescription sleep aid Ambien. You're welcome.