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Sunday, May 5, 2013
I’m certain I inherited a dominant gene for messy eating because I’m so consistently good at it.
Oh sure, everybody gets a dab of jelly on a fingertip, a crumb in the lap, or a spot of mustard at the corner of the mouth sometime.
But I find globs of wet corn flakes on both shoes, dried spaghetti on my belt buckle and pimento cheese spread inside my shirt pocket.
I can’t eat a simple peanut butter sandwich without somehow getting the sticky stuff between all my fingers, and just picking up a hamburger floods my palm with a river of mayo and ketchup.
In a restaurant the ice in my tea always shifts, drenching my neck and collar. At a banquet it’s the tablecloth in front of me that looks like a toddler’s finger painting.
I’m thinking of joining the arts community in the Roanoke area as a performance artist with food as my medium.
So if you see me outside Center in the Square wearing a crown of mashed potatoes and gravy and a vest of tomato sauce, juggling some drippy ice cream cones, stop and say hello — and please tell me if I’ve got a smear of something on my chin.
Weather JournalEarly mix, then ice storm Sunday