The roving gourmet

 

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Martin and I were driving to dinner –just the two of us– on Friday night, and we were batting back and forth the typical-go-to-conversations. Which were as follows… in this order:

1. The weather forecast (continued windy and cold)

2. Mud levels (status, mucky; yard turfed by trash truck driver when he crossed the lawn to empty the dumpster)

3. Alternative dumpster locations (potential places, undetermined)

4. Various problems with the kids at school (too numerous to mention)

5. Random business: how long can we stack 3 kids in 2 beds in 1 bedroom (Answer: technically, til college. Realistically: one bed per child.)

6. Is our pony too fat? (yes)

7. Are the sheep too fat? (yes)

8. Are we too fat? (yes)

9. What chores should we attempt this weekend?

With #9 I lobbied for removal of the Christmas tree which — in my opinion — looks like a drunk, who stumbled out the front door and careened off the porch. Currently the tree is recumbent in the bushes… with the stand still screwed to the trunk. Easter’s right around the corner. The tree’s gotta go, I said. Let’s dump it in the woods — no one will notice

That’s when Martin interrupted. Clutching the steering wheel, he thrust his free hand in my face, gesturing wildly out the window.

What? I thought. Is it an accident? Did Martin spot a robbery? What warrants such alarm? I wondered. 

That restaurant!” Martin yelled, accusingly “THAT place! ….Does NOT... have good wings!”

“Ok…” I said.

“I know it’s a wings place,” he said with disgust. “But it’s NOT good… It doesn’t have good wings–”

“Ok–” I said.

“Listen… I’m a wings expert. I’m a wings connoisseur!”

“A “wings connoisseur?” I said. “Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

“–I love wings. Grilled wings, breaded wings, naked wings, wet wings, fried wings, baked wings–”

“Okay, I get it….”

“Best wings I’ve ever had? That restaurant in Sonoma Valley–”

“Can I just show you the picture? Let me show you the picture so we can go back to disposing of the tree–”

“I ate those wings three times… Three times wasn’t enough…”

Martin must be the only person who pines for Sonoma Valley–not for the wine — but for a platter of buffalo wings…

…and I’m the only one who keeps a picture of wings on her cell phone…

Ah, the memories…

 

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