It’s one of those days when it feels like a Norah Jones album playing on repeat next to a whiskey short. Monday came so soon. Not waiting to see if plans were drawn or set. Not waiting for the rain to run away with the weekend. Monday came exhorting a reprise. “Just another rainy day,” it claims. Effortlessly lagging, it would’ve been a good day for sleep.
Instead, it turned out to be a good day for something warm and fuzzy, besides the ethanol. So, my kitchen deliciously conjured and mind you, purposefully, a can’t-go-wrong, all-American, timeless classic family recipe: Grandma’s Chili.
It stirred more than just our cold, hungry bellies upon the reception of warm food. It indubitably stirred our hungry souls…
…so much that I’m hungry for more. No. Not for chili. Just for more.
Consequently, in hoping words will fill in the blanks, I wrap myself in this until dreams come:
Calling it a day at 22:30. Goodnight.