It must be one of the most primary and ingrained feelings: the sense of contentment you get from being well-stocked with provisions. Tens of thousands of years ago it was the sight of smoked mammoth meat stacked in the back of the cave. Then it was amphorae in tidy rows in the thatch food hut. For me it’s columns of home-brewed beer in the Beer Closet, varieties in various stages of carbonating, bottle-conditioning, or simply awaiting room in the fridge, the “on-deck” position before hitting the glass and then down the gullet.
I think it’s something different from simply buying beer and storing it somewhere–this is product wrought from the raw ingredients and it satisfies the spirit as much as a cellar brimming with preserves and root vegetables was to our American ancestors in the last few centuries.
Now then, how are the children? Have they burned down the house, eaten toxic materials, or caused my heart to rip itself apart like a de-laminating tire on a big rig? No, though I think my hair is accelerating towards all-white state much faster than it has been. Mostly I try to control my frustration and let them do the things they do as children, from riding a swing when it’s going-home time or putting on a heavy witchy costume in the metallic heat of summer. They continue to say unexpected things and show a remarkable awareness of their surroundings considering most of the time they are making noise and venting emotion you’d think there was no space for input. This week I asked Number Two if he was going to eat any more of his dinner. He scowled, pushed his bowl away, and told me, “No. Give it a chickens.” Alright. At least our chickens eat well.
Writer, architect, father, husband.