I am going to a very delicious Hell.

Gluttony's one of the 7 Deadly Sins, right?

Yeah, I knew that. I'm so going to Hell for what I did tonight then.
I got a call at about 7.30 pm from my mum, telling me to scavenge the cupboards and fridge and whip up something for dinner for three, me and my brothers. I knew before the conversation finished it'd end up being pasta with tomato & onion sauce, because when the cupboards are pathetically empty like today, there's always pasta and canned tomatoes left. Onions we'll never run out of, because we have a lifetime supply stuck à peu près everywhere in the house.

When we are on limited diet like we were this evening, I like to get creative. Get all those cans, pots and spices we never use out and try to make something very dull totally new.
2 rules:

1. Don't get crazy, some things just don't go together.
2. Tell no-one you have 'gone off the beaten track', because little brothers tend to be extremely suspicious of anything that has a strange name. Tell them when they've cleaned off their plates, the look on their faces will be all the better.

Anyway, tonight I'm feeling especially adventurous, so I fry an onion, and some garlic, and a vegetable bouillon cube. And I throw a bunch of coriander all over it. It's olive oil I use, obviously. When it smells like it could be done, I get that can of tomatoes open and pour it over the fried mix. I add salt, pepper, pili-pili, more coriander and... Two big tablespoons of Maquée, the Belgian Mascarpone, which is so creamy it's a dietician's sin only to smell it.
I stir the sauce and let it simmer.

By that time the kitchen was filled with such a divine odor I didn't have the patience to get water to boil and cook the pasta. So I raided the fridge for some old rice and fried it.

Just then, it's about 8, my tall little bro (TLB to keep it easy) walks in, and I shout: "Simon, bro, just in time to set the table!" All that in English, while we speak French at home. I'm in an extremely good mood, which gets me to talk Franglais with him. We engage in a frankly hilarious conversation, hiccuping through our laughter while we go on in about every accent we know.

The fried rice demanded my attention, so he set the table and we ate, he said it was good and my little little bro (LLB, just like you suspected) didn't ask for Ketchup, which is like the ultimate François culinary compliment.
There was almost nothing left when we were finished, and my TLB cleaned up, as it was his turn. Everybody retired to do whatever they did on a Saturday evening.
But this was far from being my worst crime. Did you really think I'd shout I'm going to hell because I committed a Killer tomato sauce? Nah, you haven't heard the end of it yet...

Approximatively one hour and a movie later, I crept down the stairs again. Supposedly to tend to the dog.

Yeah, right.

In fact, to get the saucepan I used to make the sauce out of the dishwasher and literally lick it clean. While not staining my pyjama's not to create evidence. And not feeling guilty while I know that I'm supposed to lose weight.

To complete my whole fourth meal, I had a big teaspoon of Maquée (I tried being reasonable, but I figured I still needed desert).

I might go to Hell for Gluttony, but let me tell you, if I were to die now, I'd die a happy and very much sated woman.

All the while not giving a damn.
Well, Amen to that, Jesus, God and every other sod.