Like most men I know, my father is not the most attentive to appearances. I consider this a good thing since I’m not so big on appearances, myself, but his affection then manifests itself in odd ways, such as telling me I look pretty when I am standing in front of a tray of warm molasses cookies whose recipe I have yet to divulge to its adoring fans.
(My costume on this occasion is a ratty sweater that more than one member of my family has hinted that I ought not to wear, raggedy jeans, and socks that say “boys are smelly” on them in neon blue print--I wear no make-up and my hair is only just brushed and stuck up with pins into a tangle on the back of my head. And I’d been cooking all day so I’m smeared with flour, dough, bits of onion, &c.)
“The cookies;” I want to say, “it is the cookies that are very pretty tonight.”
I suppose that by association I, too, might be marvellous in the sight of men and angels (these are some pretty awesome cookies), just as I was popular by association with my sister in high school and heretical by poking holes in the logic of a visiting preacher way back in the white-picket-fence-church days.
This tends to happen when tired people see me holding out food to them. I have no objection. The habit of arguing semantics is hard to let go of, though. Le sigh.