Kicking April off with a thrum.

Dear Feastlings,

I reckon I’ve mentioned it before: the office at Feast is like sitting in a funnel. It’s like being a very small person in an old timey ear trumpet like a person whose hearing was failing might use in the eighteenth century. Every noise, every conversation, every use of the blender and every dropped plate or glass gets crammed like so much crumpled paper into your head while you’re trying to write, or calculate, or think, or answer a phone call.

So here I am, trying to show you all the April menu,

and our Saturday wine tasting,

Take me to your liter.

and our (partial) list of Easter specials,

Easter specials

all whilst a kitchen thick with idle chitchat and insipid radio music crams itself into my personal space, shoveling accents and radio commercials and unconsidered opinions into my ears, which ironically seem to work just fine when I want to shut out the outside world, despite their habitual failure when I want and need them.

The thrum in my head, a cacophony of accents and announcer voices punctuated by food processors and dishwashing cycles, as much as it frustrates me, is at least keeping me awake while my afternoon blood sugar drops and I contemplate the pros and cons of a coffee at this late hour. But I want to feel properly awake, not just kept up by irritability, which means coffee is about to win out, even though I’ve been watching my consumption increase daily like a judgmental bystander arching an eyebrow.

So we’ll see. I’ll hit the “send” button and leave the office to see if I can push the chatter back out of my head without that warm tasty cup. With any luck, I’ll find a distraction that wakes me up for the dinner rush without further exacerbating my crabbiness. Like maybe there’ll be an accidental order made of that cauliflower we just put on the menu, or someone will cut that griddled Angel food cake crookedly enough that a slice isn’t pretty enough to offer a guest. And in a few hours’ time, I’ll go home and put my feet up with some music on and a fierce wind blowing outside again like it did last night, and I’ll get one more night of long sleeves and whiskey with one great big ice cube.

In the meantime, come grab a bite and start your whiskey before I do.

Your tired friend whose ears only work when he doesn’t want them to,


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