“It’s a bit burned,” my mother would say apologetically at
every meal, presenting you with a piece of meat that looked like something — a
much-loved pet perhaps — salvaged from a tragic house fire. “But I think I
scraped off most of the burned part,” she would add, overlooking that this
included every bit of it that had once been flesh.
Happily, all this suited my father. His palate only
responded to two tastes - burned and ice cream — so everything suited him so
long as it was sufficiently dark and not too startlingly flavorful. Theirs
truly was a marriage made in heaven, for no one could burn food like my mother
or eat it like my dad.”
― Bill Bryson, The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid
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