about Cook’s Companion. Something odd about the hours.
I stumbled out of the house, carrying two bigass knives, on my way to get them sharpened, about ten blocks away. Long blocks. That I had to walk carrying big knives. Sure, they were in a bag, wrapped in cardboard, and cloth, but I felt…like Satan? There’s something about carrying weapons that makes you move suspiciously—if I scurry along the sidewalk shifting my eyes from side-to-side, no one will suspect that I’m holding giant meat cleavers or that I’m thinking about what could be done with them.
I arrived at my destination, only to find it chained and locked. The key information that I could not recall was that the damn store is closed on Tuesdays. Really, who closes shop on Tuesdays? Rather Mondays or Wednesdays. Or not at all. Tuesdays are just when your brain shifts out of the I-hate-Mondays mode and starts acting normally. This is a day that all shops should be open. But I couldn’t reason with a closed store. So, I skulked back home, wondering when I’ll get the courage to leave the house again with my dull WMDs.
