Slams occur often in this overpriced place. Neighbors hustle in and out of their house, their car, their gated yards. They never think that doors they open are doors they must close. Used too much to the care of others. Used to pampering themselves, they run out the door, letting it close on its own.

The only risk in this, is that they never understand how doors work. Never realize their role in the man machine interaction. And someday God stops taking care. Someday, like today, when the wind gusts between storm fronts. Someday that door slams closed with over 500 pounds of force. The closes, crushing muscles, cracking bone, just slightly, but enough so they scream in pain. Scream loudly enough to cover the sound of the slamming door. At last. Remember please,

God hates being your doorman.

Handles have a purpose, and they weren’t put their by God.

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.