There is this burger joint near where we live that many people said was a great place for cheeseburgers and shakes. So when I first moved in to the neighborhood my sister and I decided to check the place out, and confirmed, many years ago now, that
the old short order cook was an Olympic-class nose picker. He practiced his sport while hovering over the grill cooking burgers.
We did not finish our food that day. Slurped the sodas and took off.
I will never go there again.
Tonight I told my daughter why we could not go there to eat. "The man that cooks the hamburgers, he's a nose picker."
Harper, she with such a compassionate and forgiving spirit, replied, "Maybe for Christmas we could get him some gloves. Then he can take off his glove to pick and put it back on again when he's done."