I fear many things in this world.

But nothing more than how you will react if you ever connect this blog to me, which I have always considered to be an inevitability.

I have not always lived the way you wanted me to, and I can guarantee that this trend will continue into the foreseeable future. Although I like to tell myself that, if you were able to understand some of the nuances of my motivation, you could still be proud of me.

But I’m in no hurry to test that hypothesis.

After all, our differences are negligible compared to our similarities, as undesirable and heartbreaking as they may be. And now it seems, mommy, that I have inherited your most disturbing and unique predisposition.

I am addicted to casserole.

Pasta.

Potatoes.

Veggies.

And the cheese.

So much cheese.

There’s just something about a complete, piping-hot meal fresh from oven-kissed glassware. It fills the endless expanse of emptiness.

Like summer’s bounty rising from the dust.

I’ve never particularly cared for tuna, and I’m not sure how you’d feel about my latest tex-mex experiment. Our preferences are undeniably different.

But we share a common understanding of the dish’s basic elements. Perhaps, one day, our disparate tastes can come together in a properly hearty and delicious recipe.

It doesn’t need to make use of bizarre ingredients.

And I won’t suggest politically, morally or socially provocative monikers for this casserole.

When we prepare it, I promise not to be high on drugs, but I’ll probably come up with some ideas for it while I am.

Love,

Your son