Larruping

It was nice to have him around. His smell of pine and cinnamon, like if they got into his epidermis during his 27 years of life spent in Rawlins, Wyoming. His light blue eyes and his manners, so polite, always the best word or facial expression to accompany a clever statement, and his fluctuating moves and wavering hands while preparing delicious peach cobbles to nibble on the terrace with white Italian wine.

One night Mrs Dewflowers felt to preparing him something special, a tasty meatloaf following her grandma’s recipe. She literally filled the whole 12-seats table with garments and food to accompany her source of pride.

“That was a delicious, larruping meal, Mrs Dewflowers” the young American said while holding the handkerchief that just removed a crumble from the corner of his mouth.

All the table sniggered with fondness at the odd words’ choice of their foreign guest.