tortilla española, sorta
It was a dark and stormy morning. September the dog’s eagerness to go outside subsided like a pot of boiling water into which a frozen chicken is dropped when she stuck her nose out the door into the nearly horizontal southbound rain. Even my Helly Hansen mommy-get-that-creepy-man-away-from-me full-body rubber raincoat was no match for the blast. Missy was down with a migraine. She lay in the bed, a pillow clutched tight over her head to muffle the truck noise from the street. I asked her what she needed. She delivered her one-word reply in a muffled whisper: “Eggs.” For a moment, I had the impression that a contest of will between pain and appetite raged in her temples. Appetite won: “Potatoes. Cheese.”
This is the record of what followed.
