Ok, so I'm on this Zone home-delivery "health maintenance" plan where some dude in a Toyota Corolla delivers two black, insulated "body" bags to my doorstep every few days. Lying in wait within those bags are enough cruciferous vegetables to make the Jolly Green Giant clean as a ne'er blown whistle. Don't get me wrong, I actually enjoy the sound a large stalk of steamed cauliflower makes as it abrades the delicate lining of my esophagus. But that's not the point of my ramblings. You will recall the words "frosting" and "turd" appearing together in the title of this post. That, in and of itself, should make all of you die just a little inside. The mere mention of a frosted turd is, in my estimation, even more cringe worthy that witnessing my Spandexed backside in a series of carnival distortion mirrors. Let me get to the point. You can dress up a radish, trim it with that cute little paring knife of yours until it resembles a rose from your mother's wedding bouquet, but it's still a little crunchy red ball that lives in the dirt. Same goes with dessert. A slice of apple with some fat-free mascarpone cheese slathered on top ain't no French macaron. Now back to my wood chips and hay dip.
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