|Recipe - http://bit.ly/sDFdfX|
It is the season, Alice ..., He immediately began scribbling, ...when a young man's fancy turns to love. Mortimer took a bite of his Monte Cristo sandwich and contemplated his next line as he chewed. Powdered sugar fell onto his Garfield stationary, but such was his concentration that he didn't notice. "Ah," he said, hit with sudden inspiration. He anchored the page with an elbow and wrote the next line of purple passion. Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn if your eyes are like moonbeams and your lovely hair like thistledown. It is the milky smoothness of your voice, the hammy fullness of your communicative style, the sweetness and softness of your smile that I crave. To consume you would be heaven. "Heaven," he mumbled, popping the last big bite into his welcoming mouth. He closed his eyes and thought, 'Others' love is like a red, red rose, but you, my dear, are as sumptuous as my favorite sandwich.' "I'll write that down!" Mortimer exclaimed, powdered sugar and Texas toast crumbs flying on his exhaled breath to scatter across his letter. Mortimer was not handsome, but he had a way with words and an appetite he was sure Alice could not resist. He would marry her in April -- April was the loneliest month, after all -- and he resolved to be lonely no longer. He would teach her to cook on their honeymoon. They would never go hungry and they would live long and prosper.