Treasure hunter by Les Chatfield (Elsie esq.)

This past year I was given one of the strangest gifts I’ve received in quite some time, and the the more I think about it the more it makes me smile.

My folks gave me a metal detector. You know, the kind you use on the beach to find buried treasure.

Except I don’t live anywhere near a beach, and I’m pretty sure there isn’t any treasure other than very old manure in my cow-pasture-turned-yard.

But here’s the thing: I’m keeping it. And I keep looking for a reason to use it.

Because these are tough times we’re living in, dawg, and you never know when you’re going to want to trawl the neighborhood for scrap.

I realized I was a grown-up when we brought my daughter home from the hospital. I walked upstairs and found my wife clipping the baby’s fingernails.

I remember thinking, “holy shit, that little thing can’t even clip her own fingernails” and realizing just how responsible we would have to be.

I had a similar realization when having some beers with old friends, having a blast, and realized we were talking about recent appliance purchases.

For some reason, I like the idea of my hip-hop posse consisting entirely of chefs. Perhaps because I’d like my own hip-hop name to be Foo-Dee.

Anthony Bourdain
because he’s a badass and I’d really like him to guide me around the globe, smoking and drinking along the way.

Mark Bittman
because he’s the one I’d like to actually prepare my food

Tom Colicchio
because he knows Padma.