On the plus side, my keys are right next to me, so I'm going to make it past 11:00 without locking them in the car again, yay :)
My parents broke up about three years ago, and I stopped speaking to my father two years ago. But he's still the best cook I know, particularly over the barbeque pit.
So my roommate, whom I have called Badger for no good reason, has taken over the new barbeque pit, which is as it should be. Last week he barbequed chicken, and I thought, "this is almost perfect. But as everyone knows, the perfect barbeque sauce is the kind that my father made, which is roughly one part lemon juice, two parts butter, four parts ketchup. Very simple, but it takes the smoke in, adds a tangy, slightly sweet note to the chicken, and the butter and lemon intensify the entire effect. Please use napkins, it's a wee bit sticky, but only a bit."
Well, I'm a bit of a control freak when it comes to food. Sue me.
I'm just as a natural state, stressed out, and I hadn't been sleeping well for the last few days. So I'm a little ragged. And my roommate comes in wrapped intensely in the smell of my father making barbequed chicken on a sweaty July evening. I almost passed out, the scent-memory line lit up so brightly. It was the smell of 22 years of the best things about my father (and, of course, the smell of 96 degree summer evenings, but that's part of the barbeque experience.)
Anyway, Ailuya, if you could take over for me whenever you want, I'm subbing at the church, and want to get back home so I can cram chicken up my nose.