How Things Get Named

1998.  
I was best friends with a guy named Michael Nelson. You should feel free to run up and junk punch him if you are ever up on Admiral. He'll be in the deli at Metro Market buying tapenade. Freak.

I loved him but he did not love me since I am loud and crazy and swear like the drunkest sailor and he said things like arse and shiite. Plus he was a fake Christian and I am a real witch, so there were some obvious problems with the whole left-behind-in-the-Rapture-deal that we were never going to be able to get past. 

For four years I tried to make this poor fool change his mind. Cue Tori Amos now please, then hit repeat.

We worked together at a private catering club in Seattle and at the end of the night he would give me a ride home. Ba-dump-bump. No, really, he would bring me home, come inside and we would stay up all night talking. WITH OUR CLOTHES ON, YOU PERVERTS. If you know me, then you know how totally possible this is. 

Late-night dinner would be made. A little pasta, some tartine, a chopped salad with whatever we had leftover from work earlier. Nothing too too, but quick & delicious. Just like me:)

One night,  Michael came into the kitchen and opened the fridge. 

I don't get it, he said.  Every time I come over, you make something amazing to eat, but when I look in here, all that's there is a few rotten vegetables and a piece of moldy cheese......

Yessir.

Making something from nothing since 1967.