with thirty-two places set at a beautiful table two maybe four sat ignoring tender emotions for the sake of history and tradition they circled the offender and the offended pretending for the sake of the day that intense distrust and dislike wasn’t hovering in anyone’s holiday air… and for the sake of their hostess they saved the words nearly choking them for later yelled into the outside air finding respite in a walk on a foggy san francisco night…..
but oh! how the true feelings sat silent on bleeding tongues oh! how the words burned with a simple desire to tell the offender of her unnecessary self-indulgence to hold her accountable for three years of runaway bossy-ness……. instead breath was saved for the sake of the generosity of the host and hostess’s night words held back from lashing out were swallowed bitter pills laced with rage were swallowed a tongue heavy with recourse sat used instead for licking the flames of the opened and now reopened wounds of deep gashes stung and burning still while the other’s strong, gritty salts of bad behaviors were left ignored poured on again with relish and entitlement by one used to running many shows and once emptied, she wielded her culinary knowledge like a sword cutting any and all in her wake…
the hope never was to pierce the transparencies of the sense of tradition but after three years running the end has come i long for a mission district flat where, drowning in tequila our laughter rang true where a smaller circle of 1970’s friends manuevered with respect and humor around kitchen and stovetop with ease and grace where we shared with each other a deeper love and respect much more than the plan and detail of perfection in a crowded kitchen…but when tradition translates into the painful and the intolerable one understands and ceases finally recognizing the multitude of reasons to discontinue the tradition of forced endurance of salt to wound
Should’a stuffed that Turkey girlfriend! Next-time. 🙂 🙂