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  • Fresh salmon, sweet potatoes, fennel from the garden on the salmon, along with fresh basil from the garden, too, olive oil 'aplenty, organic mushabooms, garlic, sea salt, the trusty crusty Creuset only glimpsing original orange in its years of burnt, a crystal-clear day, not too hot, not too lake-humid, the man I love, a makeshift blue iron table in the front room while the drywall guy works suppertime buzzzzzzing in the basement fixing the long overdue hole in the ceiling, from the day the phone company internet guy came and (you tell me why) cut off our phone wires and had to go into the ceiling, leaving plaster, wires, and a big hole....oh, wait.

    It wasn't the phone internet guy, yeah, that's right. It was the landline phone guy. The guy who said, Guys, what do you need a phone for. Seriously.

    No, wait, hold the phone, it was the plumber. The one with the camera snake. Sure. The other hole in the basement. The vertical one. Yeah, he snaked the hell out of those pipes.

    Hmmmmm. Oh, I know. It must have been the furnace guy. The guy I call by the name of the guy who used to be the guy before he was the guy. Sure. That time he said we might have died because we were busy in our sleep inhaling carbon monoxide, as the furnace committed suicide and he shut that sucker down. No worries folks, he said, I'll just go right ahead and build you a new one right here, from scratch. Only take a couple days, hang on, I'm on my way to go get parts.

    That's right. The time of record freezing lows. Sure. We went to the movies to stay warm. Gee, what was it we saw? The one with Christian Bale about the guy who doesn't eat for a year? I mean sleep. No sleep for a year. Something cheery like that. Upbeat and skeletal, you know. Then we came home to an ice cold house. Alive but ice cubes in outerwear under the duvet. Oh, that furnace guy....You know, maybe it was the internet man.

    Holes in the ceiling, holes in the walls, holes in our heads.

    Hey, there you go.....dinner's ready....ah, the salmon's sweet, the sweet potatoes perfection, here comes the maple syrup, mandatory murple surple with the yams, and a field green salad.

    Dinner is done before the ceiling.

    But then, of course, it always is.

    The last of the oil and the last of the oily swim.

    Ah...these are the days, my friends.

    (Photo by Susan)

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