On this day in 1890, at 9 AM, gifted author and terrible racist HP Lovecraft was born in Providence, Rhode Island. Mr. Lovecraft often affected the manner of a Georgian gentleman, and pretended to be a neurasthenic esthete, but he was a robust man, given to tromping around in the woods in rubber boots with his friends looking for haunted caves and spooky ruins. Let us argue today not about his skills as a writer, nor about his racism and what it means to enjoy his writings, but today, let us argue about his favorite foods.

HP Lovecraft loved Boston Baked Beans

 

He loved Coffee-flavored Ice Cream

He loved French Fries

And he loved Blueberry Pie

In his own words:

Speaking of industrio-economic matters—let me assure you that a 2-or-3-dollar-a-week dietary programme need not involve even a particle of malnutrition or unpalatability if one but knew what to get and where to get it. The tin can and delicatessen conceal marvellous possibilities! Porridge? Mehercule! On the contrary, my tastes call for the most blisteringly high-seasoned materials conceivable, and for desserts as close to 100% C₁₂H₂₂O₁₁ as possible. Indeed, of this latter commodity I never employ less than four teaspoons in an average cup of coffee. Favourite dinners—Italian spaghetti, chili con carne, Hungarian goulash (save when I can get white meat of turkey with highly-seasoned dressing).

Go, ‘cados, be kind to one another and spiral heroically! Happy 128th Birthday, Old Man.