pixaal posted:

you also need bread for the bowl for your ghost, which is a type of soup.

Fredrik1 posted:

pixaal posted:

I have a muffin, are muffins bread?

It has blueberries

Chewbecca posted:

Wanna eat that bread

nut posted:

mr smuckers: when my pappy was still around running things he would always tell me that the children would flock to his berry farm as he sat on the porch whittling away at strawberry stems, making tiny spears and he would imagine throwing the spears at the tiny children in the distance frollicking free amongst the patch to pick and eat to their heart's content. When it got dark and everyone would gather around the campfire to roast strawberries and take immodium, he told me that they'd all ask him the same question, "Why do you make such good jam, Mr. Smuckers?" and he would chuckle and say "with a name like smuckers, it has to be good" and wouldn't say anything about phosphates or amalgamates. When I grew up and took over the operation, I thought I would rock away on the porch to the same endless bliss. When the strawberries dried up and we began importing from overseas, I had to just ask the children to run away from the house so i could pretend to squish them with my fingers at a distance. When it got dark, we would huddle around the same campfire and roast clods of dirt, which the children always gobbled up with glee. But I never got the same question as my pappy, when the children, full of dirt and immodium would grow tired, they'd take turns looking to me and asking, "Where are all the crusts from the uncrustables?" and this shook me at first because I didn't know. I told the kids the crusts were in heaven now, floating about all the earth, looking down on good children and nodding happily. Then the children would ask, "You know the crimped edges are a kind of new crust in their own?" I didn't know. I'd fumble out a response about the baking process, though admittedly our uncrustables were never baked, just formed and sold. The children would tell me that they'd ask their mom to cut off the crimped edges before they ate their uncrustables. I nodded solemnly as they went on to say the increased trimming of the edges of the sandwiches left them less and less to eat. They asked if I liked starving the nation of children. I didn't, but the answer was getting tough to vocalize. I leaned back in my camping chair and held my fingers open wide. One by one, I squished each child in my site from right to left. If the strawberries were still here, I would've squished them too, to make some delicious jam.