Thursday, August 14, 2008
When I was a kid, sitting at the big slab-marble dinner table, small enough that my feet didn't quite touch the floor, my dad used to pick up the big ceramic serving dish that the main part of our dinner was sitting on, a roast or something like it, and pour the juice over my plate because I was too small to do it myself. I got to tell him when to stop.
The vegetarians in the audience are probably wincing at the image, but I remember those moments as sweet ones, like the stories of my little cousin, one or two years old, running around his house, grinning like a madman with the end of a barbecued rib sticking out of his mouth. Pacifiers apparently work better if they're covered in barbecue sauce. And if they're, um. Made of bone, I guess.
Love's whatever you think it is. In my family, I've realized, love is a rare steak.
I thought I was alone in this, but Gizmodo proved me wrong.
Just sayin' - I know what dad's getting for Christmas.