I have a good friend named Doug. He’s one of the best guys I know, but he’d never admit it. When it comes to fixing things around my house, loving my kids (and the dog who pees in the house), and radical generosity, Tubbs is the man. He’s showed up more than once to pull the proverbial bacon out of the fire, fixing a dryer or a stove or a leak or a fetzer valve (it’s all ball bearings these days.) Lately he’s been schooling me on the finer points of soldering electronics, helping me wire a tube amp so that I can get my vintage rocker going.
Today Tubbs turned up to inspect my handiwork on a recently completed 5 watt Fender amp clone (oh yeah) and to see how things were progressing on our garage remodel (going quite well, thanks Jorn!) He walked into the house and called out:
Hey, I hear that there’s someone here who like to eat chicken feet! Where are they?
He remembered me talking about Josie’s appreciation for chicken feet, and he wanted to see what all the fuss was about. She was astounded that anyone would know this about her, and was more than happy to share the bounty. We just happened to have some fresh(?) feet in the fridge, and the fun commenced. Sort of. He gave it his best effort, but I don’t think he’s a convert. He was smiling, but only to cover the gag reflex. He said the best part was putting the foot down and walking away!
I don’t know if it’s a definition that will catch on, but a real friend is someone who will show up to inspect and brag on your clumsy soldering job and eat chicken feet with your daughter. That’s a little wordy for a tshirt, but I’m going to hold on to it.
We also managed to take some phamily photos Easter Sunday, which I’ll include below.
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