I’ve been trying to figure out what I want to tell you all about this beer can chicken for a few days now.
I’m looking at a dime-sized burn on my wrist, feeling like a real-life, serious, cooks-everything-on-the-grill griller.
Hi guys, as some of you may or may not know, I am Tory’s ~mostly terrible in the kitchen~ BFF Atlee. You can go ahead ask her about the time our Moms went to college together and how we’ve been friends since we were 0 years old and how we were born a day apart, etc etc etc, I’m sure she would love to tell a great Tory Story about it. (V. true. I definitely love telling that Tory Story.)
It’s that time of year when everyone seems to be in the south of France (I mean, what the hell do I need to do to be one of these people?!), gallivanting about in sundresses with a rosé IV stuck in their arm from yacht party to yacht party. (Disclaimer: I work in advertising and it happens to be the Cannes award festival this week…so that’s maybe why you don’t know someone jet-setting off to the French Riviera right now.)
There is perhaps nothing more luxurious than being a lady (or fella) who lunches. An LWL, if you will.