I didn't feel old on my own birthday.
But my baby brother is THIRTY-FIVE (35).
If i had a fancy scanner, I'd put in some adorable kiddy pictures of us as completely non-resembling non-combative little siblings. But now he's a working man, married man, dad of a sweet comical three-year-old. But to me, he's still that kid....insert your childhood cliches here.
THIRTY FIVE. I nearly puked up my viciously awful Red Lobster dinner. (not like that wasn't impending. I'm still digesting that meal. Oh but those 'cheese' biscuits...oily amalgams of salt, flour, vaguely greenish vegetal flecks of what I hope was parsley, some kinda cheese product, some kinda fat product, and more salt. Yum! I had about five, cause my 'stuffed flounder' was a strangely layered flatfish covering a pasty licorice-tasting pile of mock-crab-laced library paste, next to an overbuttered-and-creamed and twice-nuked baked potato. The artichoke dip was nuclear hot and laced with pink seafood surprise. So, my dinner consisted of a desultory tossed salad, no dressing, about five tentative bites of this fish surprise, a couple of my brothers' shrimp and soaking wet king crab legs, and far too many cheese biscuits. And a monstrous iced tea.)
I want a recipe for those biscuits. I think they're laced with crack. Salty, greenish crack.