by Robrt L. Pela
It was raining, and we were both on deadline. Neither Kate nor I wanted to go back to our apartments to write, so we went shopping for pepper grinders instead. I don’t remember if we knew we wanted pepper grinders, or if we both just found matching ones at that junky antique store where we were always buying crap back then, when we were both single, both living in that old high-rise over on Fourth Avenue.
But I do remember this, every time I look at my little copper pepper grinder: Sometimes it rains in Phoenix. And I am always on deadline.
We were specifically seeking pepper grinders, I think.
It was in that era when we made smoothies every day and talked about what we were writing.
But lack of muscular verbs was a minor kink, compared to the crippling culinary impact of the lack of a rough-grind peppermill.
My little copper soldier is now in a drawer, all mucked up with egg yolks and spoils of 1,000 meals.
I remember how the palms of central Phoenix looked in the rain from your 6th floor balcony.
I think the peppermills came before Mikey's crisis. But that memory is there too.
Posted at: July 21, 2008 1:50 PM