When I'm stuck on a meal idea, when the larder is a bit skimpy, when it's getting too close to the dinner hour: I might just have to reach into the "easy ideas" drawer and pull out something like last Monday night's supper. Some chuck roast I'd made a while back offered ample leftovers to seal and store in the freezer; I always seem to have tortilla chips and Mexican cheese and an onion to chop up. Making a fresh batch of shredded beef sheet pan nachos took care of the Monday menu, with the marvelous benefit of deliciousness.
The evening before, while I was working in my old man's chair by the fireplace hearth, my watch alerted me to motion on the north fence camera, and I spotted a young man in a hoodie walk across the gravel lot outside the kitchen windows. When he got to the end of the stone wall next to Fourth Street, he knelt down, shook his arm up and down a couple of times, and then applied graffiti in two places.
With phone in hand, camera app pulled up, I waited to see which direction he went and then dashed out in hopes I might get a better picture of him, somehow. But he had disappeared. What hung still quite strong in the air by that brick wall was the smell of that spray paint.
I cannot stand these hooligans but—at the same time—I'm glad they mostly leave my walls and house alone. It's just not a pasttime that I can make sense of, but I also don't understand the wanton destruction of other people's property.
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