Giada, Giada

Don't forget to zest!

Giada, Giada, how I luv ya, how I luv ya.  I make your recipes all the time.  I give you credit, too.  I never say, "Oh, it's a little something I came up with."  When hungry guests arrive at my door, often uninvited, and want to know, "What's for dinner?" I tell them, "Giada."  Then, for security reasons, I ask to see their I.D. You can't be too careful these days.  Oh, Giada, Giada, thanks to you, I'm all about the lemon zest.  Before you came along, Giada, the SJG never zested.  Now, I'm always zesting.  Last night, I taught the eldest son how to zest, and now, he's a zester, too.  Giada, you tell me to always have lemons in the house, and I follow your command.  You tell me to cook wheat pasta, for its nutty flavor.  So I make wheat pasta, and then I remember.  Oy vey, Giada.  Wheat pasta, even with the zesting, the ricotta, the fresh tomatoes and green beans, the garlic and the olive oil, the pinch of salt, the freshly-ground pepper, Giada, wheat pasta and I don't get along.  I haven't made it in years.  The kvetchy digestive tract that belongs to the SJG says, "Go away, wheat pasta, and never come back."  So, Giada, Giada, I forgive you this one error, and thank you for all the zest you've brought to my humble life.  But Giada, if you ever tell me to cook wheat pasta again, we're done.  Capiche?