There are few things in the world more absolutely inspiring than a paint-stained mug full of homemade hot chocolate and more whipped cream than necessary.
That, along with spontaneous comfort food and old Hitchcock movies, accurately sums up my impression of a college social life:
October 2011. Not quite Halloween.
“It’s a lot like whistling, except with movement.”
“Gah! Look, no one knows what you’re talk –”
“Tap dancing?”
“YES!”
Click. Next word.
“Okay, if this person were a tap dancer…”
The impossible game of connect-the-Catch-Phrases continued for the next hour, uninterrupted except for a quesadilla break and a brief analytical discussion of the chef’s impressive eyebrows.
I sat closest to the pantry, my back to a chilly glass door, my feet in socks folded awkwardly beneath me, my weather-cracked hands cupping a Christmas mug. It was raining that horrible Southern [melted] snow, but the kitchen was bright, cozy, and happily disorganized.
“Babe Ruth likes to eat…”
“Popcorn?”
“No,” she replied shortly. She looked at me expectantly with a bright green, unblinking stare. I looked around, helpless.
“How should I know?”
She continued to stare, unrelenting, unmoving, daring me to guess correctly. By the stove, my roommate shook her head in exasperation. Wiping her hands on clay-smeared jeans, she made one of her typical, astonished-at-absurdity faces and sat a fourth mug on the table.
The mug sat there, unnoticed. Its owner was busy whittling the handle of an old, #2 pencil into the shape of a tiny ‘D.’ His albatross eyebrows furrowed with concentration. Nothing else existed.
There was a moment of silence, then a sigh of infinite disappointment.
“Bread pudding. Babe Ruth likes to eat bread pudding.”
Click. Next word.
