During the week, I banged out a piece, which upon reading and trying to edit it into a more peaceful position, decided to let it sit. It’s August, it’s hot. The world is burning up. What good would another screed be?
So, I went into the kitchen and took my knives to some skin-on, bone-in chicken breasts. With the oven preheating at 325°F, and the outside approaching 100°F, I took off my shirt. And put on a cooking apron, the one I got from Petra winery in Tuscany. I love that grease-stained smock. It’s army green and has seen a lot of skirmishes in this kitchen. The cats started to come around, for they have long sensed that when someone is in the kitchen hustling about, there might be treats in it for them. They are well fed. They could be Roman street cats.