We are having everyone for Thanksgiving this year.
This is what our kitchen looks like. Our 1951 O’Keefe and Merrit takes
center stage. I love that bad dog about as much as I have ever loved
a physical thing. I have been elbow deep in its guts and I have taken
its temperature and I have washed its dirty hind-end and coaxed out
the brilliant blue/green flames froma clogged burner.
Let me tell you, you can do major surgery on that big bad
body with little or no fear.
Cast iron. Porcelain. The Grillevator.
A couple of weeks ago I stole the graphics from Nikki McClure and
painted our fridge. (Hey, I sent her an email asking permission and
even showed her a photograph, but nothing back from her yet….).
I like it wicked bad.
A guy at work I like sat with me in my office for an hour
and let me go on and on about my kid. He just listened
and let me rant and rave.
He’s a good guy.
The kind I thought there were a lot of before I got wise.
I love and I love and that’s an old story.
Still, I love.
Shit, I probably love you.
One thing I do, is I love the little nest my wife and I have cobbled
together out of loveand spit and odd taste and a hundred bucks.
I’m going down swinging.