“I always thought ghoulish was macaroni, tomatoes and meat,” said Stan, poking his fork at his dish of noodles, meat and spices.
“What are you talking about?” Tammy had spent time on this dinner, Stan’s first at her apartment. It was her grandmother’s recipe. Stan was gorgeous, had a good job, took her nice places, sometimes was funny. “I’m not getting any younger,” she’d thought when she decided to take this step in what might be a relationship. “I’ll invite him over.”
“How is this ghoulish? What’s with the sour cream?”
“Ghoulish?”
“Yeah. I don’t see how this is ghoulish.”
“GOULASH you illiterate dweeb! GOULASH!”
“What?”
“Not ‘ghoulish’. Gou-LASH!”
“OK, but this still isn’t it.”
“You’ve just never had the real thing before. You’ve just had the school lunch version.”
“We didn’t have school lunches.”
“OK, whatever. You had what your MOM had for school lunch. Do you like this?”
“It’s OK. I’m a little disappointed, though.”
“Disappointed?”
“Yeah. I miss my mom’s cooking, and I was looking forward to ghoulish the way she made it.”
Tammy looked up toward the ceiling and saw the handwriting. “Not this one, sweet cheeks,” it said. “Find someone who can read.”
“Summer is the season of inferior sledding” - Inuit proverb 
I was usually lucky. NO ONE missed mom’s cooking. Maybe I’ll make ghoulish for dinner tonight. Ghoulish omelets.
Ah, Ghoulish. Yum.