Killing Them With Pure Honey

I was born with a tongue so honeyed you’d think it had been pickled in sugar syrup for eight centuries.

In third grade, the prettiest girl in class snatched the last chicken tender straight off my tray. I didn’t cry. I carried my empty cardboard boat up to the lunch lady, widened my eyes, and sighed with theatrical devotion:

"Ma’am, your breading is an absolute work of art. She literally risked in-school suspension just to get a taste of your culinary genius."

The lunch lady charged across the cafeteria brandishing a stainless-steel ladle, chased the girl halfway to the kickball field, and…