So, the other morning I wake up and say to my husband, “I can’t decide on a topic for my column.”
“How about if I give you a first sentence?” he suggests.
“OK,” I reply.
“That wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen,” he states.
“Hmmm… That’s it?” I ask.
“That’s it,” he answers.
“Well. That is a good first sentence,” I admit. “But where does it go from there?”
“Beats me,” he says. “You’re the writer. I’m going to make coffee.”
“Wait. My column has to be about something. It can’t just be about a bunch of mumbo jumbo.”
“I don’t know about the mumbo part,” he says. “But I could sure go for some jumbo.”
“It’s called ‘jumbo’ because that’s what you become if you eat too much of it. You know that, right?” I say in my outside voice.
“That’s a bunch of baloney,” he responds. Then adds, “Hey, do you think anyone else calls bologna ‘jumbo’?’”
“I’m not sure,” I answer. “I think Pittsburghers are the only people that order jumbo by the pound.”
“I could sure go for a fried bologna sandwich,” he mumbles.
“Yuk,” I find myself thinking. Fried is not a word on my food list. My husband shrieks when I order something like chicken fingers and peel away the breading, bit by bit. He always asks the same thing: “Are you not going to eat that?”
And he always gets the same answer.
“No. And neither are you.”
I never eat the skin on chicken wings, and neither my husband nor my sister can understand it. My sister says I mutilate my food. She says I’m a chicken sandwich in a cheeseburger world. But that’s not true, because when I order a chicken sandwich, I order it without the bread.
But I do like French fries. I inherited that from my mom, if you can inherit things like that. French fries aren’t your typical fried food; they’re in a category of their own.
My husband says that’s a bunch of mumbo jumbo because French fries happen to be fried.
Whoa! Stop the presses. Something about this column isn’t right. I forgot to begin with my husband’s first sentence. What was it again? Oh, OK. Here we go…
That wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen. My column wasn’t supposed to be about a bunch of mumbo jumbo. But a bunch of baloney, well… that’s another thing.
Karen Tomas is a resident of Fort Mill. Email her at firstname.lastname@example.org.