What A Ful Believes

I'm a terrible person.  Sorry Eva, I just haven't had time to make it over for Sunday chi (hot tea).  I'm aware of the other six days, but it just wouldn't be the same.  My last meal- my last drink- before I leave town is always with you at Sahara.

I'm not expecting to be greeted by my first name, Dear, but don't be too harsh- no silent treatments.  Don't sabotage my chi with sugar.  We can still be civil.  Besides, sipping on small gilded glasses can't be enjoyable in silence for you either.

It's only at your place where I can feast on boorek, ful medames, dolmas, assyrian briany, and cornish hens.  It's only at your place where I can then push my stomach's limit with your scratch baklava and chi.

Since it's been so long, you can't blame me for attempting to make a surrogate dish.  No, it isn't cheating, but please understand- I have my needs.  And we both know when I make ful medames (fool meh-dah-mez), I take a Lebanese approach.  Doesn't taste as good yours anyway.

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