Monkeys and Typewriters

Lordy, do we write. We love to write. We love food, certainly, but we do love to write. And not always about food.
Here's a mash-up short story, an ad hoc pastiche from recent food blogs, set to shuffle play — and what a story it tells. Or does it?
(Note to my blog pals. You wouldn't be included here if I didn't adore reading you. Thanks for writing my post today. Blog on.)

Last evening, I sat on our couch, next to the Chef, with tears rolling down my cheeks. I looked up at him, honestly moved and unable to convey it fully with words, and said, "You made me pizza."¹
  Look, I’m grateful, but I’m not that grateful. Hockey, schmockey! Where’s my catnip? Where’s my gourmet meal? And while I’m at it: Hey, cat stuck under the radiator? What the heck are you thinking? Just plant your butt on the floor vent like I do.²
  The question I have been getting the most these days, after "How are you?", is "Where are you?".³
  Well, I used to like the nog, but when Bezzie said "It's like drinking cold spiced phlegm," I may have changed my mind! Can I booze up the cocoa??⁴
  So, the state I find myself in got me looking for hangover cures. Now, there seem to be a couple of different schools of thought on this. The first one calls for more booze and the second for the refuge that only the pharmaceutical industry can give you.⁵
  But, as surely as every cloud has a silver lining, I'm afraid every unseasonable sunny day has its ring around the collar, its withering Dorian Gray portrait, its really scary-looking guy holding a corncob.⁶
  Years ago a good friend Murdock observed that Ed is like the rock in the center of the river, solid and unchanging. Himself is like the water, moving effortlessly through life, one with the universe. I however, was the guy in the kayak, upside down, broken oars, banging into every rock and branch on my way down.⁷
  For as long as I can remember, my tonsils have been the barometer of my internal weather system. My mother repeatedly dragged my younger self to the doctor's office sporting tonsils the size of grapefruits, usually accompanied by a fever and a raging sore throat. Miraculously, my tonsils were never removed, and all these years later, I've grown rather fond of them.⁸
  Things seem to be progressing nicely, so I remove the wrapper and find that, no, actually the chicken is still pretty much frozen solid. Think, Tammy, think. How about a deep-tissue massage so the heat can really penetrate? A little to the left. Up a bit. Right there. Ahhhh.⁹
  Good food, good company and a bowl of rose water and petals that continued to perfume our home for another two days.¹⁰

¹Romantic
²Sarcastic
³Realistic
⁴Hysteric(al)
⁵Aww, Puppy
⁶Moronic
⁷Totally Smoked
⁸Oh, Baby
⁹Outrageous NKOTB
¹⁰Dreamy Dreamer