Sam’s Odd Pairing
Hear me out.
You’re trapped in a pantry dash. Hunger has come upon you like some kind of great big hole on top of a—Guh, cannot think. Too hungry. You’re trapped in a pantry, doing a dash, flinging open cupboards and those sliding drawers which are called—Forget it, they’re called sliding drawers. Get that bread; tear that packet, and grab whatever you can. You have four heels—two white, one brown, and one multigrain—good lord, that is delicious. Reach overhead. Pull that balsamic vinegar from its sticky home and pop the cork like some kind of rum pirate—Get liberal. Make that bread cry delicious purple tears of runaway balsamic juice. Smear it everywhere.
Open the fridge—Ricotta, MyGodda. Get a great big spoon and pick it out with the empty bit and rub it around with the curvy side, because, that sir, is a spoon. Then return to the first press, and grab those sardines. You oily little secrets, get on top of that ricotta cloud and go to sleep beneath a light sprinkling mouthwatering sea salt.
Got them oils. Got that cream. Got that grainy, grainy bread soaked in balsamico. Perfect—almost perfect. Turn on your heels, rip open the fridge—It’s in there somewhere, it must be—oooh, great Gilgamesh, there it is, the fluted bottle, obsidian glow, precious Coca-Cola.
Now, I must be alone, with my fish cheese sandwich, and elixir of life.
Avinnash’s Odd Pairing
Thousands of miles away and well after Sam has settled into a deep sleep of carbs, fat, and sugar dreams, I can’t stop sweating.
It’s hot, dry, and smoke is in the air even though it's 830. Welcome to an August evening in Oregon. I reach for the trusty bottle opener living on my keychain since 2009. The bottle is ice cold and sweating droplets of moisture down on top of my little dachshund Arnold panting below and wagging his tail hard enough to smack the curious cat also interested in the magical elixir. Luna runs off into the bushes, watching from between a St. john's Wart and fuschia yarrow.
The pop. Cap hits the ground. I sink back into my lawn chair. It’s too hot to savor. This one’s going down quick. Arnold the dachshund gets a little taste. His tail wags faster. The sun falls behind the mountains and the temperature drops quickly as it does in our little valley with forest and mountains all around. Arnold settles into his outside bed with his favorite McNutt nectarine linen scarf he uses as a blanket. Summer will be over soon. Maybe one more bottle of real-sugar coke before I call it a perfect night.
