Tonight I had dinner with a cyclist named Peter. Peter is Swedish. Peter is also a chef. Peter is a Swedish chef.
“Do it,” I said. “You have to do it.”
Peter gave a quick glance around the restaurant, gripped a fork in one fist and a spoon in the other. “Vergoofin der flicke stoobin mit der børk-børk yubetcha!” he said, waving the utensils around dangerously and tossing pieces of bread over his head. When he pantomimed the chickens running around, I started to convulse.
I have another change of plans to announce. I am coming home immediately*. I didn’t know what I was looking for when I left the U.S., but I knew that I would find it. Thank you, Peter; thank you, Jim; and God Bless America.
* Note: a lie.
