On a very cold New Year's Day morning, when I was about twelve, we got a call that the church where my dad was pastor was on fire. Someone from the congregation had stopped by the church and opened the door, releasing the pressure that would have caused the place to explode very shortly thereafter. As it was, the structure remained, but the entire place had to be redone from the inside out (sorry, any parents of mine who are reading, if I got the details wrong). Anyhoo. One thing I remember to this day is that during the extensive remodeling I thought, "Thank God that my dad is the pastor here, because he has way better taste than anyone else in this pathetic little town."
Why am I remembering this story now, you ask? Not because of my own exquisite taste, as evidenced by our recent remodeling, though you can be forgiven for jumping to that conclusion. No, it's because on this crisp fall evening we decided to have grilled cheese sammiches and tomato soup for supper. We stopped at the co-op and got good cheddar to put on Eric's homemade bread, and I picked up some fire-roasted tomato soup. The soup tasted exactly like the way the hymnals in the church smelled after the fire. Exactly. We each took one bite and dumped it all down the sink.
And that, my friends, is why we blog. Random, inconsequential nothingness.
4 comments:
I. Love. That.
(Not that you had to toss the soup, but the sensory recall.)
Life is one big projective test.
For extra credit: Aren't you impressed with the primitive but evocative powers of your limbic system?
So the soup was musty and smoky all at once?
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