“He’s looking to add his banana to that fruit salad.” I blink. “What?” “You know, batter-dipping the corn dog. Creaming your twinkie,” she says, a faint smile curling on her lips is the only inclination that she’s not serious. I’m stunned silent for a second, so she continues, “Bringing the al dente noodle to the spaghetti house.” Slapping a hand over her mouth, I scrunch my nose. “Wouldn’t al dente make it limp?”
I love this book already.
