Don’t Kick the Cook
by Tim Reynolds
I have been eating for over half a century now and have spent a great deal of time in kitchens, professionally, practically, and even romantically.
If you can’t nuzzle while stirring pasta, what’s the point of cooking Italian? Although my skills have serious limits, I have discovered Three Basic Rules of food prep that I now pass on to you.
One: Salt to taste.
Two: Singed eyebrows grow back.
Three: Preheat the oven.
Salt to taste: My buddy Craig and were up at his family cottage for a weekend of fishing, rum, and cribbage. Since the fish weren’t biting that day, we went to our back-up plan, a simple, manly goulash that two twenty-something former Boy Scouts considered to be Cordon Bleu gourmet dining. Meat, veggies, more meat…perfect. When it came time to add a touch of seasoning, Craig tapped a pinch of salt straight from the shaker into the pot. Unfortunately, the shaker lid wasn’t screwed on quite as tight as it needed it to be and a half-full shaker’s worth of salt slid straight into the goulash… continue reading in Fall 2017 issue.
I live a boring little life, in a boring little duplex, on a boring little cul-de-sac, in a city whose most exciting event of the year revolves around cows.
I eat, I sleep, I go to work, I write, I hang out with my three beasts. My life is completely devoid of adventure and really always has been. If there was a color to describe my life, it would be Suburban Beige, the beigiest beige on the color wheel.
As a kid I wanted to be everything from an astronaut to a cowboy to a spy to a movie star, and finally, Elvis. None of it happened.
I’ve never even had the adventure of marriage, although I did once propose to a girlfriend at the airport before she left on a jet plane to fly across the continent to donate a kidney to her mother. No, she didn’t say ‘yes’. She laughed and said, “Are you kidding?”
I’ve never driven a Formula One race car, although I did park a Mini in the foyer of our college chapel… continue reading in Summer issue 2017.
Just One of the Litter
by Tim Reynolds
I was raised by a French girl, coached by a Golden boy, and taught the meaning of true love by a Yorkshire girl.
They were, in order, a poodle, a retriever, and a terrier. If you said I’m a dog person, I wouldn’t contradict you, though I like cats, too. I like all animals, usually more than I like people, but dogs… A dog is the only creature that will love you more than you love yourself.
We got Lollipop (the names have been changed to protect my computer security), the toy poodle, when I was nine months old, and she was my girl. When I was four I learned to whistle loudly enough to be heard two blocks away, and Lollipop came running every time—a little black blur through the neighborhood…continue reading the Spring issue of SEARCH Magazine.
Bachelor to Grandfather in a Blink
By Tim Reynolds
On my 41st birthday, I was a childless bachelor with a long history of living loose of foot and free of fancy. On my 42nd birthday I was four months into a terrific relationship that would last another thirteen years. Then, without any warning whatsoever from a certain inebriated palm reader or the sweet Psychic Tradeshow Tarot reader, I celebrated my 43rd birthday as a grandfather. Yes indeedy, I went from childless bachelor to grandfather in a blistering eighteen months. Somehow this old dog had managed to skip parenthood completely and jump straight down the rabbit hole to grandparenthood.
Baby Jake was born very suddenly due to an abruption his mother suffered. They were only a couple hours from either one or both of them not surviving. He was a lot of weeks early and spent most of it imprisoned in the Neonatal Care Unit under heavy guard. It was a long time before I was allowed to hold this little bundle of wonder, but I did get to see him incubating a few hours after his hatching. He was wrinkly, and red, and so tiny I was afraid to even breathe near his chamber of life. As time passed, he grew strong and bigger.
When Jake-the-Snake…continue reading.