This is up at Thimbletter.
| Spice of Life Steve Deutsch My dad was infinitely better with a knife and fork than with hammer and nails. And though his do-it-yourself skills were never the wonder of the Western world his hamburgers were the talk of Hopkinson Avenue. He worked his magic on a small hibachi on the fire escape— his secret spice mix secure in an old Hellman’s jar. Early each spring he’d don his ragged Dodger’s cap and his consecrated robe, draw the shades, and prepare a fresh batch. It was quite a ceremony. He’d recount each ingredient three times as if a cantor singsonging a prayer— holding each spice jar to the kitchen light with reverence— then mix them all together with a wooden spoon that had been in the family since the time of King David. “Pure gold,” he’d assure me with a wink. He taught me everything I know and even today I can’t be trusted with tools. I’m never asked to fix a leak, caulk a backsplash, or even change a lightbulb. But a fire in my fancy gas grill is cause for the neighborhood to rejoice and noisily pray for leftovers. “Hamburgers,” they murmur, nudging one another and applauding mightily when I hold up the legendary Hellman’s jar. |
Stevie's Law 