Last night at book club, there was three-quarters of a leftover Yankee Blueberry Buckle. There are all kinds of buckles out there, most of the ones I've eaten (and I've eaten plenty) are not much different than cobbler. This Yankee Blueberry Buckle, a guilt offering proffered by Anne who bailed on book club because she got free Etta James tickets to the Hollywood Bowl, was more in the coffee cake family, loaded with blueberries, and is the best buckle I've ever tasted. Of course, no one wanted to take the leftover buckle because carbs are like something out of satan's ass, but I kind of like satan. I lugged it home. In a brown bag. Walking.
So, I've been snacking on it all day long. Anne, who is an amazing baker, with her oven always on full blast over in Silver Lake, needs to have her own snack line, made my sweet day. But I am also resentful. So I wrote this poem, kind of like the woodchuck could chuck wood thing. It's vulgar, but you try rhyming with buckle!
How much buckle
Can a fat fag shovel
From a Silver Lake
Fag Hag Fuckle?
3 comments:
I hate that I wasn't there! Oh, that dessert sounds amaaazing.
I never ate a buckle.
How about posting the recipe? Or is it a family secret?
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