Gobbledy Gook
My Michael Keaton moment:
I’d told asked Happy Wife to stay still. Now and then wives do not fulfill the humble requests of their husbands. Thus the wind swept face. We stopped here after I picked her up from work, earlier than usual. Three women seated at the bar across from us each had a hearty pour of a deep red liquid smoldering in a glass in front of them. Words were exchanged, the glasses lifted high and mightily, clinked together and the liquid decanted with gusto down their gullets. What had they wished for, I wondered. The look on their faces struck me less as a felicitous celebration and more a vengeful release — “Take that sucker.” Perhaps a long and bitter divorce finally had been settled? A lawsuit concluded in one’s favor? Absolution from a moral judgement?
HW and I sat, talked, drank and ate. Nothing much, a happy hour appetizer, Quesedilla’d chicken I think. Texts were exchanged with HW’s brother. He and his family live in Fairbanks. He was evidently in a festive mood himself, referring to me, qua brother-in-law, as the “lighthouse of his life.” I felt unworthy of this affection. The “siren upon his shore,” maybe. Though I have no recollection of ever having led him astray.
HW has finished the Maple cheesecake and I have de-cellared what I hope will be a well-paired New Zealand Pinot Noir, our contributions to Thanksgiving dinner being hosted by our friend at his house later today.
What have I to be thankful for? For you stopping by here, that’s what.
Happy Thanksgiving.