--Thanks for cooking again tonight. It’s really my turn.
--There’s something about a man in an apron.
--You always said it turned you on to see a man on his knees with a bucket and rag.
--What’s that on your chest?
--I’m sorry, it’s drool. I was testing the sauce.
--That’s OK, I don’t mind.
--Motherhood gets you ready for almost anything, doesn’t it? Even drooling men in aprons. It’s not such a big thing, is it?
--Of course not.
--Think of Pavarotti, think of Satchmo. Both of them were big droolers, always with a handkerchief.
--Exactly. When I start my reality show about being a movie extra, you can open a boutique. Drool Hankies. It would be a small shop, like those Tie Tack stores they used to have in malls. Or the Sunglass Shack. You could be in all the shopping centers, it might catch on with rappers and hip hop culture.
--Very enterprising, I like it. Bling-related handkerchiefs. I would market Drool Hankies as a high-end fashion statement. I could have P Diddy or Fifty Cent hold a drool rag to his groin and shag-walk toward the camera, doing his rapper thang. We’ll pursue this after I boil the pasta. It’s breathed long enough, pour us some Rosso di Montalcino.
--Is this the last bottle?
--Afraid so, the last baby Brunello. But we need to drink what’s left before leaving. Besides, it’s Friday. Excuse me, it be Friday. Joey next door corrected me once. He told me I was wrong, it wasn’t Fifty Cent, it was Fitty Cent. I was grateful for the insider information.
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