This gem is courtesy of our resident teenager. It's petrified pudding. Soaking it in hot water for an hour did nothing. It had the consistency of vinyl covered tar and it was no easy feat trying to scrape it out of the bowl. He cleverly hides his personal leftovers in order to put off getting yelled at for being too lazy to cover his creations. He is getting better though. I haven't found any dirty dishes under his bed or behind the recliner in ages.
Ah, but there was beauty to be found in the fridge as well.
Confession: I dressed them up for the photo. Eggs aren't very pretty on the outside. Heck, they really aren't that good looking on the inside either. The beauty of these particular eggs is freshness. One hundred percent certifiably, undeniably fresh. (That big white egg is a goose egg. We usually give the goose eggs to Mia, our spoiled rotten Great Dane.) Glen gathers the eggs every day, even though the chickens and Lucy, our only goose, have every right to go on strike on days like these:
Are you wondering what we had for supper tonight? Leftovers. Just the freshest ones though.