My Only Bitchy Cousin Is A Yankee-type Guy- The... -

“Your oregano is expired,” he announced on his first visit, holding the jar like it was a dead rat. “And the way you store your olive oil next to the stove is degrading the polyphenols.”

He snorted. “And you’re a menace.” My Only Bitchy Cousin Is a Yankee-Type Guy- The...

He raised one perfect eyebrow. “Yes?” “Your oregano is expired,” he announced on his

I stood up. “Bradley,” I said, sweet as pie, “I have a question.” “Yes

“Because,” he said, “you’re the only people who tell me to shut up to my face.”

By high school, he was six feet tall, razor-thin, and had developed a vocabulary specifically designed to make you feel like a piece of lint on his blazer. He went to a boarding school in Connecticut where they apparently taught Latin, crew, and the fine art of condescension. I went to public school in Macon, where I learned how to hotwire a golf cart and make a bong out of a Gatorade bottle. We had nothing to say to each other.

“Why do you come down here every year if everything we do is wrong, everything we eat is garbage, and everything we say sounds stupid to your fancy Yankee ears?”