I don’t know how I do it, honestly. Normally I eat crap because normally I can only afford crap, but here I am house-sitting chez gourmets, and I still managed to make myself a dinner burritto that smells like nothing so much as sweaty horses. Unless it’s the parings the farrier trims from their hooves; that, too. Charming.
Now, it’s reasonably certain that Lydia and her family haven’t stocked the fridge with horsemeat in anticipation of my house-sitting reign. I figure that stew-looking ingredient was a benign ratatoille but I could be mistaken; eggplant can be tricky. And you’d figure if the cold cuts were in reality Dobbin dogs, someone might have mentioned it, if for no other reason than that I’d then give them a wide berth.
If that’s not actually the case, and mine hosts are, in fact, caballaro cannibals, I will be forced to undertake a penitent pilgrimmage to Louisville Downs upon their return.
Secretariat, I am so, so sorry.
Still, nummy!
