Ah, Sunday.

I got home late last night from Phoenix, where I spent Thanksgiving. I was down there with the rest of the family for a cousin’s wedding. It was wonderful.
And as an added bonus my aunt mentioned to my mom that there was a Dale Chihuly installation at the Arboretum nearby. His glass sculptures intermingled among the cactii and other desert flora. I had only ever seen the Chihuly piece that’s at the MIA (Minneapolis Institute of Arts) in the foyer.

Anyway, the flight home was delayed by over an hour. Which meant that my friend who kept watch over little Ramona (and had my keys because of her duties) had to stay up extra late, despite the fact that she was completely sick. So when I got there I expected to find my friend either asleep or at the very least, dazed.

What I found was a roaring backyard fire, my friend and her husband, and about five neighbors seated around it, enjoying the heat and the night. So I ended up hanging out for a few hours. There is nothing like coming home from a long trip to hang out with friends (as I have come to think of her neighbors).

But it lead to a rather… interesting conversation.

I was in the house and my friend was finding me a jacket to wear (I had flown home in just a hoodie sweater) when her husband came in to talk to me.

Now just to clarify: her husband is South African and although he’s been in the US for quite a long time he still has a heavy accent. So sometimes he’s hard to understand.

He sidled up to me in the kitchen and sort of got really mysterious and was trying to ask me something. But he was really just being odd about it. He kept telling me he had something. He had something. But he wouldn’t tell me what it was.

I honestly thought he had scored some weed but didn’t know how to mention that maybe he had some and wanted to share.

But no. He didn’t have weed. He finally told me that he had mushrooms. A lot of mushrooms. And would I like to have any?

Woah.

So I sort of stumbled through an explanation. “Thanks for offering, and although I don’t have a problem with people using drugs, it’s just not my thing. I really don’t want any mushrooms.” Because it really isn’t. And I was sort of taken aback that he would have them.

At this point my friend kind of stepped in, got the idea of what was going on, and just started laughing.

Because (as she explained to me through gales of laughter) he was mysteriously offering me gravy. Mushroom gravy.