I was at the grocery store today when the phone rang; daughter. Hey Dad, the Orchestra concert is tonight. Everyone forgot about that, and it threw everything into a hat. That one over there. No, the other one. The cocked one. So dinner was abandoned, everyone grazed where they were, except for Daughter, who wanted to stop afterwards at Starbucks for a sandwich. It cost a hundred and sixty-seven dollars and appeared to be sponsored by the Dijon Mustard Promotional League, but it’s time she started learning about mustard in its true form. She’s already aware of Cheese as it truly should be; mustard is the next step.
Read the rest of The Bleat here.
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