The phone rings early Sunday.
Hubby and I are circling the coffeemaker like buzzards in a house that is unusually quiet except for the percolating.
The girls spent the night at my mom’s Saturday while we had a lovely steak dinner out with three other couples from our hometown that we’ve known a bazillion years. OK, more like twenty, which is still hard for me to believe. (Coincidentally today is the rerelease of U2’s Joshua Tree, which I listened to a bazillion times during that pivotal transition year from high school to college.)
I grab the phone and see it’s my dad. I assume he is on his way to church and calling to see if we want to meet at the Cracker Barrel, where we eat our weight in biscuits and hash brown casserole monthly.
I realize my gravelly voice is suffering the effects of no caffeine and my mini martini tasting from the previous evening.
“Turn on channel 5! They’re interviewing a farmer about corn. It’s a crap vegetable! He won’t even feed it to his cows!”
Oh, the girls don’t even like corn.
“Doesn’t matter…anything made with corn. Corn, corn syrup, anything!”
Even tortilla chips? Even blue tortilla chips?