"I once thought I had mono for an entire year. It turned out I was just really bored." – Wayne in "Wayne's World
For the last seven-ish years, I have been part of a writing group. It started as a class by local poet Steve Langan, and later splintered into a monthly gathering. Sometimes there are prompts like, "incorporate poison ivy, hologram, and fire escape into a piece," but most of the time we can submit anything. Sometimes we just show up, hear some new writing, and enjoy each other's company.
This month we hosted the group. Or, I should say, my lovely bride hosted. I offered them our house, and since we have tomatoes, I said, "how do I make bruschetta?"
Did you ever see Wayne's World? Do you remember the part when he can't find a clerk at the music store and Wayne says, "I know, I'll play the 'may I help you?' riff," rocks out for a second, and the clerk pops up?
Me saying bruschetta is like that. My bride heard me and lept into action. Within hours we had hot plates, cold plates, desserts, wine selections, little toothpicks, and a variety of sparkling waters.
The guests arrived, were suitably awed at her kitchen prowess, and she ran off to teach a class.
It was awesome.
On a somewhat related note, the next day we lost a tree.

By my count, it was 77 years old.
I say somewhat related because one of the poems submitted the night before was about birthdays.
To celebrate somebody's birth
you calculate years on this earth.
Unlike rings on a tree,
you can't measure to see
if one's age determines one's girth.
– by Steve Jordan
Good stuff.
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