Letting it roam from the sleeve for a while.
Today is the day my dad was supposed to have *breathe* open heart surgery. Not an immediate emergency, but necessary for a sustained life, all the same. Rescheduled for some months on down the line now. Apprehension, I know you well. Attempting to convince him that scars are there to tell a story, and the right people will be glad to listen. Any repelled- it may tell bunches about their character, i.e., lack there of.
Like Pavlov’s dog.
Me to bruschetta. Bread. Tomatoes. Olive oil. Garlic. Something green, basil or (not and) cilantro. SALT. It makes for an easy, albeit, temporal, heaven. I could quite possibly live on this alone. No, I’d miss cinnamon too much.
I’m a broken record.
Is that anything like the squeaky wheel? Do I get any oil? Preferably, olive. SEE ABOVE
Again, this looks familiar, enjoying too much of a good thing. Sophia- love an “a” or “o”, sometimes “i”, at a name’s end- looks up at me in the kitchen one day and states, “You love tomatoes.” Guilty. Her little sister, Sierra- Shortcake, and sometimes Short Stack, cuz you can flip her like a flapjack- is new to words, and therefore, calls her sisters Soapy and Sham. I, remain Debba. ♦