Let’s talk about the kitchen in my first apartment: A room the size of an airplane galley* with the bonus feature of a countertop hinged to the wall. If that countertop was not in the lift and stow position (just like an airplane tray-table) it wasn’t possible to open the refrigerator or the oven.
This was great incentive (for my roommate) to do the dishes. I preferred moving the dirty dishes to the living room. *I’ve peeked in an airplane galley – it’s usually hidden behind a curtain (that matches the drapes) – the flight attendant works mechanically, loading up that cumbersome cart to roll down the aisle.
The delicacies that came out of that first apartment kitchen included (and were limited to) chicken pot-pies and tater tots. The crisper drawer in my refrigerator contained a large amount of an herb – but that was none of my business.
Oh, but the tater tots!
Straight from the freezer and onto my cast-iron skillet: washed down with an Old Milwaukee and a Camel Lights cigarette.
Whew! Did I mention I had 18 by the balls? ALSO, if I had a hankering for ribs OR pizza, I only had to walk down the stairs. That’s right, the one and only Ribizza fulfilled that strange combination requirement for Uptown, Minneapolis.
Exactly five minutes West of my house is Kings Wine Bar - a newish (rhymes with Jewish) little neighborhood restaurant. They serve tater tots but with sauces far fancier than ketchup. I was there last night and there didn’t seem to be any Old Milwaukee or Camel cigarettes on the menu but somehow, after we ate our tater tots, our table was magically covered with candy.
This doesn’t have anything to do with the card I wrote/designed last night. Or does it?
Collect them all (there’s only one) and store them safely in a polished mahogany box. Tabulated by topics, like: Division-of-Labor, Apology, and so much more!
Weren’t those lovely?
Once Upon A Time, I got a massage in September. It was from a hobbithe blessed the vessel that was me and scampered around the table like his footsies were on fire. When it was over, he requested a hug. I consented because I have never hugged a hobbit and I didn’t want to crush his tiny hobbit-heart.
I’m sure you knew that.
Ham!
Perhaps you recognize that man?
His pants are usually radioactive, but not for this card.
It was time to pry open the (heirloom-quality) tupperware lid. Time to expose the rotting and pungent living carcass to the unblinking eye of its critics.
Now, readership of the Zeichen Press blog hovers somewhere between cable-access viewership and meaningful Craigslist encounters.
