The other day at work, AZ turned to me and asked, "Who says supper anymore?" I forget what I'd said that included the word "supper," but I made sure to include it in my conversation throughout the next few days, in the hopes of provoking more people. I may sometimes sup on peanut butter, and sometimes on roast lamb, but damn it, sup I shall.
Tonight my dear L. Joy is making supper for us all. We sprawl on blankets in the sun, or debone a chicken, while she stews up four different varieties of wat, and pedals across town for the best injera. Thanks to a Mennonite college cross-cultural semester, she can say "hi" in Amharic to the people in the Ethiopian market. And now this house is brimming with the mass anticipation of a real shared supper, just like the entire Saturday city uncorking its wine, tunings its guitars, and chopping its Walla Walla sweets. Soon we'll all be getting messy dipping wat from a common platter with our torn-off bits of spongey sour injera.