There is no better way to spend a Sunday evening than sitting on the back porch with my gal Brownie, sipping tea, passing judgment on the neighbors, and dreaming of all the ways to cook a chicken: fried, boiled, breaded, roasted, or stolen in the night, eaten raw beneath the porch while the farmer calls out with a pitchfork and heavy steps search in the wrong direction.
That’s when I look over and realize we’ve been drinking teas from Long Island and gotten a little silly, stewing in the heat and humidity.
Brownie laughs, that great burst of sound as she throws her head back, spilling some of her drink and sending birds into the air.
She sighs and gets nostalgic about hunting before becoming civilized in the ‘burbs.
I look at my watch, and she tells me to go, go grab life by the neck while you can (love my girl Brownie)!