“Why did you wrap your arm in prosciutto?”

This, from a friend to whom I’d texted a shot of this grazing board, pre-assembly.

I was about to shove it in the fridge (which I took to calling “the morgue” for the next few days) and took one more shot of it lying there on the parchment paper, before allowing it to set up for a spell.

I got a real kick out of that message, especially since I’d traced my hand and arm as a template before starting. That it embodied my bird-like wrist delighted me. I was Chef Moreau, a cook-slash-mad scientist. An artist. And definitely a weirdo, but one with many kindred souls around to enjoy the ghastly humor inherent.

Sadly, my boyfriend is not one of them.

“Did you see the picture I sent?” I asked.

“Yes, but I deleted it.”

“Why?!”

"Why did you wrap you

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