My friend, Tom, can’t play golf with me this afternoon because he is “making pickles and dill green beans.”
The man already lives in colonial times, heating his eighteenth century home with wood, growing most of his fruits and vegetables in the backyard and often donning a tricorne hat on formal occasions, but this is getting ridiculous.
My wife also wonders why Tom would even admit to me that he was pickling rather than golfing. “You’re mean enough to him already,” she said. “Why would he give you that kind of ammunition?”
That’s why we call him Good Ole’ Tom.
