Monday, July 23, 2007
So it has been a long time since I wrote something. Here is a short point form update on what I have been up to:
I moved back to Toronto
I started a new job
OK, that is about it. Those are pretty big things I thin k so let’s just say it has kept be pretty busy.
Now that I am home I am very quickly picking up where I left off. I’m seeing old friends, going for brunch, and most importantly I have returned to the Portuguese chicken I love so well. And, yes, he is still there and I am thrilled!*
Now that I am home, I think I need to put my feelings for him out there in the universe once again. Perhaps, this time, I really will post this letter the door of the chicken place. I just have to let him know how I feel, and I know that I will be speaking for hundreds of women when I say…
Dear Portuguese Chicken Guy,
I have come home. It has been two long years and I could barely stand the pain of being separated from you. I have had other chicken, but please believe me when I tell you that they meant nothing to me. I have saved my deepest devotion for you… and perhaps your equally hot younger brother… and your dad.
I left this city thinking of you and with every visit home I would make up an excuse to stroll by your shop window hoping to catch a glimpse of you. Winter, Spring, Summer or Fall, you would stand in your family shop serving delicious chicken to your customers, almost exclusively women, with a bad boy look in your eye, and the slightly suggestive curl on your lip. You know we love it.
I don’t know if you would remember me. Why would you? You are your own urban legend. The vast numbers of women passing your storefront shop all know you. I am simply one of the adoring fans mesmerized by the smallest movement of your forearms as you separate two breasts and two thighs. I am held in thrall by the smile that slides across your perfect mouth to greet customers. I am hypnotized by the sound of your voice, though I have only ever heard you say about fifteen words. How did you get this hold over me?
The sight of you has stopped me dead in my tracks. Indeed it has stopped me in time. I remain hotly frozen in your doorway the day I first discovered you. Me, in a t-shirt and a pair of Taekwon-do pants, you in a white tank top and soccer shorts. There you stood, surrounded by glistening chickens and hot roasting ovens, piles of rice and stacks of potatoes, you looked like the God of Passion in the hot, steam filled air. The Greeks and Romans would have worshiped you, given half the chance. I would say that on the 8th day God created you, but that wouldn’t do you justice. Your form, your wicked face, your complicated air, and your simmering sex appeal would take God at least a week, and I would take years to adore you.
Yours in sauce and side dishes,