Min amerikanske slektning fortalte meg her om dagen at han leser Tweeds oversatt fra Google Translate. Det gav meg visse bange anelser om at jeg ikke alltid fremstår så velartikulert som jeg skulle ønske.
Dette er hva han leser (originalen finnes her):
After all.
I would suggest the other day that I can not produce anything but sausages and eggs & bacon. Just over coy (sic), for I am in fact an excellent cook red cabbage. Therefore, it is I who forsnyner family of red meat to roast, which was yesterday's Sunday dinner, and of course when it comes to goose on New Year's Eve. There are other things I'm good at, yes I mention as well galore. I make an excellent risotto. It is closest to a signatory to rain, along with soup à la Rose Buds, although I admittedly usually leaves the execution to my madame. I'm not miserable when it comes to aioli, if I well to note not too hungry and I manage to keep tempers at bay when on rare occasions goes wrong. However, because it is a rare occasion goes wrong, I often lose both courage and motivation before I started. Furthermore, I make mashed potatoes, fish bowls with white sauce, roasted pork and nod and not least arrabiata that it tastes the way delicate five year old gets angry. Moreover, it is generally known that I am a real crackerjack of cooking merry cousin cocktail mix. But where I think unfortunately it stops.
Jeg skjønner om jeg aldri blir invitert på besøk over dammen.
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