I don't cook very often. It's not that I don't like cooking, it's just that by the time I uncork the wine, I have usually lost the notion. But, when Lisa called me and said that she was craving my salmon, I couldn't say no. She has pretty good wine.
I went to the International Farmer's Market to buy fruit that I didn't recognize. You see, if you cook fish with exotic citrus fruit found only in south east Asia, people think that you're a genius. No two employees at the Farmer's Market speak the same language. Solomon has worked in the produce department for at least five years and he's learned a considerable amount of English in that time. He can say, "How are you?" and "I work and work," and "You look like cousin of me." He has a new phrase that I love. I told him that I was cooking dinner for a friend and he said, "I will put my fingers cross for you." He gets nervous when he talks to me and his voice gets higher with every phrase. He might know a few other sentences, but they are in a range that my ears can't detect.
I don't like to cook in my own kitchen because it is three feet by two feet. While this makes it very convenient to clean the floor, it makes it very difficult to open the dishwasher and the fridge at the same time. Lisa's kitchen is much larger than mine, so I decided to cook/drink at her house.
I got to her place before she did due to an unfortunate traffic stop. When she arrived, she commented on how a blow job doesn't take nearly as much as time as writing a ticket. Then, she went into the bathroom to gargle and touch up her lipstick.
Dinner was divine. The wine was excellent. We drank and talked and sang karaoke and danced and talked about men and hair and men.
Eventually, I got hungry again. Earlier, I had spotted Girl Scout cookies on top of the fridge. I am partial to the Thin Mint and am heart broken that the Lemon Cooler has been discontinued. Because I can exercise restraint, I only bought two boxes of cookies this year and have not eaten a single one. It is like a game that I play with myself.
Lisa has every kind of Girl Scout cookie. She has three cases of cookies in her dining room and a freezer full of Thin Mints. As long as I don't touch the caramel and coconut cookies, she doesn't care what I eat. I reached up on top of the fridge and grabbed the blue box of cookies. Carefully and deliberately, I only took one. I know all about portion control (except for when it comes to wine). Lisa yelled from the other room to get one for her too. I took two more from the box because I want to make sure that she is fatter than I am in a swimsuit. I am a decent and caring friend.
I bit into my cookie. It was dry and bland. "F*ck," I said, "they really need to put the trans fats back into these." I handed Lisa her cookies.
"Mist, these are dog biscuits."
Who the hell keeps dog biscuits next to Girl Scout cookies?
I took the picture to demonstrate how misleading her display of cookies is. In my defense, I am short and cannot see on top of the fridge.
The dog and I do not get along.