The first time I met Tiffany, she asked if I could be her best friend.
You have to understand what this did to the shrunken little 7-year-old in my heart, who spent long hours at recess wanting to be asked that, who never was. All I’d done was sit down next to her at a friend’s birthday party, and crack some kind of joke about Kinfolk magazine—who knew that everlasting friendship could be that easy?
At her words, deep inside me, an adenoidal endomorph in a side ponytail and stretch pants bloomed like a flowering cactus.
The bitch of it was that I was leaving within a week for the road again. I had my doubts as to whether the charm would last–flings I have had, but never ones based on friendship, which I assumed was the key component missing in my repeated soon-to-flower, soon-to-fade romances.
But lo! How it has lasted. Tiffany has directed me through a dehydration attack in the desert (“take a sleeping pill now, get some Gatorade tomorrow, you’ll be fine”), educated me on the factual existence of ligers and tigons, and defused my emotional flare-ups with the most ingenious curation of YouTube videos. (Prancersize FTW.)
She’s that rare friend who can take my intensity without catering to it.
She has the best colors in her kitchen—goldenrod yellow and Ford Edsel green.
She has a son named Jack White.
The other day, apropos of nothing, entirely unsolicited, she sent me the directions for a iced tea drink she made up, made with honeysuckle and drunk from a mason jar. So maybe Kinfolk gets the last laugh, I don’t know. I can’t begrudge that. It’s what brought us together.
I now give you, for your summertime drinking pleasure, narrated by the woman herself…