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You remind me of home

Bryan surprised everyone last night by returning a day early from his sojourn around the globe. In retrospect, our surprise was unwarranted, seeing as this is the same boy who traipses off to other countries on the slightest whim. The glue under Marta’s newly installed carpet finally dried yesterday, and I set down a drawer to her dresser, which we were moving from the storage area to its proper home, to answer my cell phone. Bryan was sitting on my couch, he said, and wondered if it would be alright for him to come over. The emphatic screams of “Bryan!” from Marta and Laurel should have been enough of an answer, but I told him to come on over regardless.

Everyone’s missed Bryan’s culinary expertise since his departure six weeks ago, so of course we set him promptly to work cooking for us. We made pico de gallo and chicken burritos and followed it with homemade three-berry ice cream. This last I was convinced Laurel had spoiled. “How much vanilla, Zach?” she asked me. “Half a teaspoon,” was my responsible reply. “I’ll just put the rest of the bottle in,” Laurel said, and did so, despite my screams of protest. However, my fears of a cloying vanilla presence proved groundless, and the ice cream was probably our best batch of the summer. When the table was silent, everyone thoroughly engrossed in their food, eschewing all attempts at conversation in favor of stuffing ourselves, Marta brought out the grade finale: a bottle of her father’s homemade plum wine. Her parents have a very productive plum tree in their back yard in Renton, and he makes a batch every year. Its sweet tang was the perfect follow-up to the spicy Mexican food, and Marta pointed out: “Guys – we’re eating home-made pico de gallo, home-made ice cream, and drinking home-made wine.” Personally, I filed the observation under the growing column of Reasons I’m Indie, and everyone else seemed to bask in the pride of the statement as well.

This is unconscionable. Ashley opens packages of food with furious violence, like a rabid badger, without regard for helpful instructions reading “TEAR HERE,” “PULL STRING TO OPEN,” or even “DO NOT OPEN THIS SIDE”. Thoughts of instructions, use of scissors or other tools, or the future of the food in question is the furthest thing from her mind upon opening a container. Bags of cereal split half their height down the side, raucous holes torn in plastic bags immediately adjacent to the convenient Ziploc seal, holes punched in plastic tops next to the pour-spout; these are all common occurrences in my home when Ashley stalks our cabinets. But this… I don’t know what to say. I just went to toast a bagel and found the tub of cream cheese split right down the side. Cereal boxes and bags are delicate, sure, but this?! We’re talking about strong, solid plastic, mankind’s greatest materials achievement since concrete. I’m wondering if she didn’t do it on purpose to spite me. If you’re reading this, half-breed, you’re cut off.

Posted in Musings.

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