#Reverbbroads: Holy Jesus, Bread is Good With Everything

Today’s #reverbbroads prompt is:  Share a recipe or meal that is a summertime favorite. 

via Amy

Summertime favorite, wintertime favorite, for richer or poorer favorite – I would more than likely die a cold, sad death without bread.  All kinds, any kind, all shapes and sizes.  I LOVES BREAD.

Bread clogs, assholes.

Because nothing says “summer” like your oven at 450°, I thought I would share my all-time favorite salad recipe.  Although is it really a salad, when it’s got lovely hunks of delicious bread in it?  Probably not.  Whatevs.  It’s fucking amazing.


  • 6 cups old, stale Italian bread, torn into bite-size pieces
  • 1 cup olive oil
  • salt and pepper to taste
  • 3 cloves garlic, minced (add more garlic if you hate society)
  • 2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
  • 4 medium ripe tomatoes, cut into wedges
  • 3/4 cup sliced red onion
  • 1 cucumber, peeled and sliced
  • 10 basil leaves, shredded (grow it, bitches.  It ain’t hard.)
  • 1/2 cup pitted and halved green olives (totally optional, or kalamata olives are good as well)
  • 1 cup fresh mozzarella, cut into bite-size pieces (“fresh” meaning the milky watery kind, not “I JUST BOUGHT THIS BAG”)

Toast the old bread a little, either in a pan as if you were making croutons, or under the broiler.  Not too much.  Chop all the rest of that shiz up.  Put it all in a giant bowl, mix it up, grab a fork and go.  Cry a bit after you’ve eaten 1/2 of said bowl in one sitting.  IT WILL BLOW YOUR MIND.  You can’t help it.

Anyway, I usually make this at the beginning of summer, because it’s easy and colorful and I’m the only one that’s going to eat it anyway, so fuck off of my Bread Salad.  I smell like garlic and onions.  Sex is clearly imminent.


#Reverbbroads: Je Suis…Darlene

Yesterday’s #reverbbroads prompt was:  With what fictional character (book, movie, TV, etc.) do you most identify? Why?
via Kristen

Well, nothing says classy FRONCH titles like Darlene Conner from Roseanne, y’all.

“Just stop right there, Ponyboy. You and the rest of your Outsiders can go rumble someplace else.”

Yeah, I was kind of a sarcastic asshole, much like the young Darlene.  Blame my mom for making me do vocab flash cards from age 2, I mean – what the fuck did she expect?  Oh man, the only thing I didn’t have was that hair.  I would have cut eight bitches down with some blunt left-handed scissors for that shit.  Her hair is legend.  I will live forever in envy.  That and she did have quite the pale, alabaster skin.  Dammit.  I didn’t wanna stay inside all day to cultivate that.

My mom was nothing like Roseanne, which is probably a godsend, and my family nothing like the Conner family.  So it’s strange that I would identify with this anti-meat, little brother-having girl.  But the loner aspect and the mouth on that kid reminds me totally of myself at that age (and most of the time, now – minus all that teen-y angst.  Sort of).  I’ll never forget when I said something so sarcastic my mom actually slapped my face.  I was way taller than her, but I lived in fear of my parents and their wrath so there was no way I was fighting back.  In retrospect, I don’t blame her.  I’m sure I said some terrible shit when I was 14 (and 15, 16…ok, all the way until 22.)

What a dream child.  While I never got hooked on drugs or drank that much and made decent grades, my smart-ass comments got me in a shitload of trouble at school as well.  Sometimes the class clown, but more often than not, lining up for a “talkin’ to” with our horrifying, crag-faced, snaggle-toothed vulture of a vice-principal.  This didn’t stop my unbridled invective from unleashing itself.  I am not sure I ever figured out what “too far” was.

I think many people like to think that sarcasm is depressing and negative.  I don’t necessarily take umbrage with those sentiments, but I know that my nature is to be that way – to be less trusting than most, and to be more “realistic” than most people want to be.  How do I handle difficult times?  Well, it’s certainly not by slapping on some fake Pollyanna attitude.  If I’ve told you to suck a dick, or a bag of dicks, I probably half-meant it.  My mother is a “be cheerful or die” kind of person.  I’m just not made that way.  Neither was Darlene Conner.  We both may not have aged very well in retrospect, but we are both, I’m guessing, less wounded deep down inside.

Also, suck a dick.