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From the Keyboard

No, thank you

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The other night, I watched as a TV food critic led cameras into the kitchen of a trendy new restaurant.

His review of the meal had been rhapsodic, spread over an array of dishes, which he lustily devoured. And, I  thought, gee, I’d like to try that place.

Then he went into the kitchen to talk to the chef—a young man who was clearly thrilled by the attention, his new star-status.

Being the food freak I am, I waited, pen in hand, for the reviewer to repeat the restaurant’s name and address, both of which I’d failed to write down during the opening. Yes, I was smitten, and ready to make a reservation the minute I had a number, That is, until the chef, while demonstrating how he prepared a signature salad, plunged both of his bare hands into the bowl of greens and other ingredients, and fondled them…repeatedly.

The food critic didn’t even blink. He gave the restaurant four stars.

I, on the other hand, made sure to write down the name of the restaurant so that I would never make the mistake of going there.

Maybe I should have sent him salad tongs, too.

©2017 All Rights Reserved

 

 

 

 

Mirror, Mirror

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Miranda didn’t trust her mirrors so she crawled out of herself for an objective look. It was a nasty trip, through a tight network of brain worms, past the eyes, down the nose. If she had known the route was going to be so twisted and sticky, she would not have worn her cocktail shoes, as they kept sinking into all sorts of matter, and getting tripped up by hairs that wound around her stilettos.

When she finally made it through, and slid down her upper lip to the floor, an unexpectedly swift and treacherous fall due to high gloss lipstick, she looked up and took stock of her appearance.

It did not impress her.

So she turned to flee only to trip on a mule and fall flat on her back.

The standing Miranda, who was in the process of preparing for a night out, stepped forward to grab a clutch, and promptly impaled her supine self on a heel, whereupon she was possessed by such an inexplicable sense of relief, that she removed her shoes and tossed them in the trash.

©2017 All Rights Reserved

Doors

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Drawing by Sir John Tenniel

Before the hare, before the hole, before the twisted dream, there was the door, its hinges greased, its frame petite, its contents undisclosed.

Was she deceived? Did she believe the world beyond would match its portal’s size?

Or was she innocent despite a yen for change? The waistcoat, watch, and steep descent? The rabbit’s warning cry? Potion’s shrinking power?

Too late, I fear, too late.

How soon until we wake?

©2017 All Rights Reserved

 

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