Conversations in the Kitchen

Amber Palace - Rajasthan, India (not my photo)

Amber Palace – Rajasthan, India (not my photo)

23 November 2013
7:00 pm

T. —

I’ve been in a suspended place all day, but now everything is finished, and now I can relax.

Sarah’s here. Now, the fun will start. We’ve already gotten two free bus tickets.

Conversations in the kitchen, making dinner:

A: You’ve never been here in the summer?…
S: I left at the end of May
A: … like in your life?
S: When I lived here.

S: I cannot handle the weather.
A: But you came to Savannah and survived.
S: Well the weather in Savannah, I survived.
A: Why? That was the worst of it.
S: I don’t know. But now, the cold, I can’t handle.

A: But you’ve done Edinburgh before, so Canada won’t be much of a shock.
S: The first time I came here was a really bad winter. Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad.

S: Last time, they ran out of grit for the roads. And so things kind of skidded to a halt.
A: Literally.

A: Well, I walk everywhere. But everyone else…
S: Yeah, the trains, forget it. I just remember hearing about this pub up North, I think it was by Inverness, that got snowed in — they didn’t know that it was going to happen. First, nothing. I guess it was overnight, and they told everyone they had to go home. But the people there — they unanimously decided that they were going to stay, and got snowed in there for three days. They just spent the whole three days piss-drunk.
A: I can imagine. “This pint will keep me warm.”

S: I don’t smell like peaches anymore.
A: Peaches?

A: She got this new lotion or something, and I was like “you smell like cotton candy?” and she was like “no!” and I said, “vanilla?” and she said “No!” and — what was it? — coconut or something? So I was way off.


November for Beginners
Rita Dove

Snow would be the easy
way out—that softening
sky like a sigh of relief
at finally being allowed
to yield. No dice.
We stack twigs for burning
in glistening patches

but the rain won’t give.

So we wait, breeding
mood, making music
of decline. We sit down
in the smell of the past
and rise in a light
that is already leaving.
We ache in secret,


a gloomy line
or two of German.
When spring comes
we promise to act
the fool. Pour,
rain! Sail, wind,
with your cargo of zithers!
Good morning, good night,

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