Like everyone else, you start off a fresh-faced youth, all full of dreams and toxic shame, an inordinate desire to belong, and a belief that you can keep up your charade forever. Add a soupçon of that Moonchild curse to derive pleasure from providing warmth and refuge, a willingness to settle for the compliment when someone calls you “comfortable as an old couch,” fear of making Jesus vomit, and the Imposter Syndrome inclination of poor self-esteem to channel all your aspirations into someone obviously more talented and worthy than yourself, throw it in a crock and let it ferment for 40 years, and lo, there it is, ta-da! Presto! Behold! Sauerpoopenfarten!

Oh, it wasn’t all bad. I’ve always been an artist in some capacity and I’ve been blessed with a couple true loves. Some of it was quite terribly wonderful. I just think if I’d known my table buddies were going to be nonextant at this stage, I might rather have made Rigatoni Bolognese…

I always choose my words with extreme care, and in this case “buddies” was more appropriate than either “friends” or “pals” because as you may not know, “friends are friends and pals are pals, but buddies sleep together.” Here’s to my first buddy, my late wife, and my second buddy, my late husband. You’re both late to my dinner. You both contributed powerfully to the recipe. I honor you, my loves, with my sauerpoopenfarten.