Aunt Sally’s idea of breakfast put more calories on my plate than I had in my left arm. I mean, whipped cream and butter and jam and waffles and bacon and eggs and toast and she looked like she was waiting for me to order seconds. She probably wouldn’t even recognize tofu as a fucking word, and if she’d ever made a green salad in her life, I was willing to bet she’d used bacon grease for the dressing.
I tried not to look disgusted as I took my first bite.
Ohmygod why didn’t anyone ever tell me about this stuff? Did little kids have completely different taste buds? Was this some kind of bizarro mirror universe where saturated fats were awesome or had my old body just been broken? I cleaned my plate and ordered seconds; I had no idea where I was going to put it, and I didn’t care.
I mean, I’d always loved eating, and I could navigate the menu of a five-star restaurant in 12 languages and 37 entirely different civilizations, but while I’d picked up plenty of men in diners, I’d never actually tried the food.
How could she eat like this and be so thin?!?
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