A Patty Melt is a Hotwitch

It is hot.
At 6:30 my hubby announced it was still 100 degrees in the shade on our patio.

As it happens every summer, the air conditioner at work went on the fritz - - which meant the temperature at my desk had reached 85 by the time I locked the doors at five. I turned to my co-workers, lifted my hands in a wicked gesture and reinacted my favorite scene from The Wizard of OZ.

“I’m melting. Melting!” I screeched and collapsed into my best impersonation of a puddle onto the slate floor.

It was cooler down there.


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