Dear Mum,

 This is day two of my consistent attempts to survive without you.

Ok. I lied. Day one was almost a week ago. 

At anyrate, today's recipe reads as follows:

"Materials needed: peas, beef, and Jess's left over French toast.

Action verbs and loose ions of the brain, namely, Ben's: Wash peas. Shake dry. Wash beef. Wring dry. Put in pan to fry. Oh yeah. Fry. Refrain from adding any seasoning whatsoever, cause we all know what happens when Ben starts adding seasonings. Refrain from adding even salt and pepper in order to avoid bringing to mind too many miscellaneous addable flavors. Add vinegar. Oops. Take Jess's French toast from yesterday and refry using heat trapped in any remaining vinegar and oil. Not sufficient. Light the stove, the part under the pan, again. Ok. We're done. But I was going to survive on my own and I used Jess's French toast!!!!!!!!!!!!!! NOOOOOOO!!!!!" 

I don't particularly like the helpless feeling of being cooked for. However, I don't know which is worse--being cooked for, or the feeling of domesticity inevitably resulting from my search for independence. Maybe if I cooked with my hockey stick...

No. Not after where it's been. Right. 'Possum hunting is a whole 'nother story.

In His Hand,

Ben ;-)