First good thing. Am much happier now than I was a few minutes ago having just eaten a slice of fresh zucchini bread. Anita’s been baking and the scent rises to my second floor office. As far as I’m concerned it’s still too early in the season to resent the giant, naughty zucchini gardeners pawn off when you're not looking.
Second good thing, I see it is nearly dinner time and I’m not cooking! We’re grilling at Kosmo’s tonight and I hope she remembers that a bunch of us are coming over and she’s providing the car-nay. So. More joy. It’s not that all of my life is about food. Really, it’s not. But at the end of a long day to find that someone else is redeeming zucchini and lighting the fire is, well, a grace. And for good measure: a poem:
O dread species!
you bore me to death.
At night while the stars hone their points
you multiply and inflate into obscene gestures.
You are the season’s homeless.
We pass you among us like orphaned children
until our sense of charity dissolves
under the sheer weight of your numbers.
Then do we stack you like firewood
and pray for lightening to strike.