A Pie Story
Donald Trump has not been reinstated as president; dark forces continue to conceal Hillary's emails; it seems all those school shootings really happened; and no dead member of the Kennedy family has returned to life.
There's your political column right there, pal.
Now for a holiday story about pie.
It was two days before Thanksgiving. Having returned from the not-too-intensive labor of my local news podcast, I sat on the couch, lumpish. Our two cats were asleep. My wife, a realtor, was out "picking up a few things," as she often says.
I'd seen her sticky note list that morning.
Spinach. Cheese. Pie shell. Dessert. Wine. Lottery.
I don't like wine, I don't play the lottery, and I don't care for spinach. The cheese-pie shell-dessert part of the list was my part of the list.
My wife's key was in the lock. The cats woke up. She calls them "good kitties" and "pretty kitties," and they like her very much. She tells me not to leave my shoes under the coffee table when I take them off and reminds me to take my vitamins and forces me to eat spinach, and I love her very much.
She had bags in her hands. She put them down on the kitchen and returned to the living room.
"Who's a pretty kitty?" she asked a passing cat.