Cole-Slaw

I like to make a dressing based on a home-made mayo, a drizzle of sorghum molasses, some dry mustard, a few other things. Cabbage is neutral, you either pickle it, or dress it, or dance out in the rain. It's either slaw, a cool mouth-full, something slightly sweet and crunchy, or something soggy and way too acidic. I lean toward the slaw. Sweet rather than sour. A romantic, after all, without a sense of shame. I look forward to spending an evening with Drew and Michael. If I see B tomorrow, I'll ask him up:

The chickory blooms
And it's hard to not notice
dark clouds building.

Yes, the leaves bend;
bending is just part of
coming into line.

The weather held, Drew was able to drive in with no problem; and they came with gifts, good whiskey, and a couple of exotic foodstuffs for my winter larder. The new guy, Shawn, was an absolute delight, Irish, and well versed: when the conversation clicks into line, you just go with it. I was pretty well on my game. Dinner was good. I rubbed the tenderloins with wasabi, then a dry mix. Michael finished the potatoes in butter. I see nothing wrong with the fact that we drank an entire bottle of bourbon. Under the circumstances, it seems exactly correct. I fed us well, and I loved watching how everyone tore off pieces of bread and sopped up the last of the sauce. There are very real ways in which I'm merely a vector for the sauce. When you watch grown men sop every last trace of a particular sauce, your sauce, what you'd brought to the table, it's hard to not be proud. I'll tell you the truth, I almost wept.