[The pants problem was one that used to bother Fiddleford a lot too, at the beginning. There was never really a good solution to it. Oversized clothing might have draped down far enough to make up the difference, but he's not a child wearing his big brother's hand-me-downs anymore. Skirts crossed his mind, but he's just too firmly entrenched in 'man from the seventies' to be comfortable in one. Ultimately nobody can tell where his junk is unless he directs them to it, so he's resigned himself to just pretending it's a non-issue. He barely even thinks about it anymore. Most people are wholly distracted by his awful shirts anyway.]

Oh, a little of everythin'. Beef -- no human it this time. [He could be convinced in future, but then it gets into the logistics of butchering up a whole person and where would he put the leftovers and y'know, it'd just be a whole thing. The way he eats usually cuts out that kind of prepwork. He doesn't have a freezer equipped for that kind of meat storage yet.] Onion, garlic, green peppers, tomatoes, a whole mess of beans. Spices, but I'm not tellin' you exactly which, that's a family secret.

[The secret is it's basically all of them, a lot. And moonshine, but that should have cooked away by now.]

I had a run-in with gnomes once. Awful little critters. Real sharp teeth.