It strikes me as I make shepherd’s pie this day that over the past five generations I have achieved a status by which I’m not sure that I can afford this poor man’s meal. I look around the kitchen, scattered over every surface are pots, pans, specialty mashers, bowls. Metal and glass is everywhere. All this for a humble poor man’s meal, which someone could call “mashed potatoes on top of dry lamb stew” but instead is called shepherd’s pie. And I love it. Now back to the warmth of Sedona, wood, sun, food.

I don’t pay a race car driver that much money so he can wreck my car.

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NB: in typing the above, came up with “parrot phrase”