Wednesday, May 17, 2006
There’s something about making your first BLT in your new apartment that brings one back to their adolescent roots, that singular defining moment when you escape the grasp of your parents domination to either fall on your face or land on your feet. The place may be small, a mess, lacking the luxuries of home, but it’s mine. In a sense, that means I am home.
Hungry for something new, avoiding the obvious cravings for bourbon, I turn to food. And let me make this clear: I’m 200 lbs. and holding! If I wanted to loose more weight immediately, I’d do it. But I’m having whiskey cravings, so food will do as my cross-addiction for now.
So maybe there’s something about the BLT that inherently defines when a place becomes your home. When you’ve cleaned up, packed away enough crap, and organized enough stuff so that you can make decent a BLT...well then you’re home.