Remember the brasciola we used to eat at the Italian restaurant around the corner and downstairs from the Tampa Maas Brothers department store? No, that was fifty years ago, and I don't remember lunch. Men's brains are wired to remember food and sports, and it lets them talk to strangers with ease. "Try the brasciola." "How 'bout Carlos Zimbawatty's double play?" This man I am married to can tell you the starting lineups of both World Series teams from 1958. But he can't remember from one day to another how to work the toaster.
I've been trying to toaster train him this week while battling a strain of flu that ignores flu shots. I must just not be a good trainer. I, on the other hand, have a perfect, female brain. It lets me down on occasion, such as this last week. Do not jump to conclusions when your refrigerator doesn't seem to be as cool as you think it ought. You may have just added a lot of foods that needed cooling. Do not crank it up to 9. There was an old, unloved, bottle of beer that had been resting way back in there for at least a year, maybe two. When beer explodes it sends millions of sticky slivers into every nook and cranny of your refrigerator and makes you take out every drawer and shelf including some you didn't know were removable.
As I surveyed the sorry mess all over the counter, I said "Remember that brasciola doggie bag?"
No comments:
Post a Comment