I wonder how long it will take to get the second-hand stank of spoiled ground beef off my hands…

It has been quite the morning. In preparation for our dinner party this evening, one of my tasks for the morning has been to make chili. Pulling out my never-before-used fancy-schmancy crockpot with the removable stove-safe insert, I placed the ground beef in the insert on the stove and proceeded to read about how to use my other fancy-schmancy new kitchen device called the Breville “All in One” (viva la wedding gifts!).

The “All in One” basically combines a food processor, masher, electric whisk, and immersion blender (which I had never heard of before it was gifted to me) into one compact platform. Needless to say, it is a bit complicated first go-around. Yesterday I pulled it out of the package and could only stare it down as it flaunted its S-blade, shredder, slicer, and other features that are imminently dangerous if touched improperly. But, today being a new day, I decided to conquer the machine that only yesterday conquered me.

So there I was, in the kitchen, carefully adjusting the adjustable slicer and examining the design of the lid to see how to lock it onto the processing bowl (the last thing I want is a flying slicer) when I started to smell rotten eggs. Except, there were no eggs cooking. Hearing the beef beginning to sizzle, I realized the beef must be the culprit.

I googled if this was normal for ground beef, because I had never cooked that either. The consensus on Yahoo! answers matched common sense: no, my home should not be infiltrated with an effluent of rotten eggs when cooking beef. Now I know: one day expired, must be retired.

Of course, I removed the bad cow from the burner, figuring the faster it cooled, the faster I could get it out of the house. I lit all the candles in the place, opened the windows for ventilation and tried not to puke as I pushed carrots and zucchini through the food chute.

Feeling triumphant for successfully and bloodlessly chopping veggies in the “All in One,” I decided to be bold and switch to the S-blade to dice the onions. I supposed it would spare me the tears guaranteed by chopping them by hand. Less than twenty seconds into pulsing the onions, I start to cry. Desperately and through tears, I found my pink onion goggles (yep, they are the real deal). Even as I pulsed the remainder of the onions, the tears began to dry up. There I was, sporting mismatch pajamas, dried tears, a messy bun atop my head, and pink onion goggles in the midst of my new kitchen toys and the mess I had made with them sprawled on every square inch of the white counter. All this in the wake of the forceful stench of spoiled beef; I had to laugh.

Though the spoiled meat — and its wretched, looming stank — certainly has not been healthy for me, the laughter it spurred has concretely benefited my health. Here are a few fun facts about the medicine of laughter: laughter boosts the immune system by decreasing stress hormones and increasing anti-bodies; laughter relieves physical tension up to 45 minutes after laughing; laughing triggers endorphins, aka the feel-good hormones; and, laughter protects the heart as it increases blood flow and the function of blood vessels.

The moral of the story is to laugh more, even at things like spoiled beef.

Now, I’m off to the store to buy some fresh meat for the chili. I think I’ll go with turkey round 2.

Bumping along the grass in a golf cart unfit to off-road, “Aunt Hazel” called out, “Mama, you holdin’ on back there?” Onna, the expectant mother next to me, chuckled in a polite, yet amused, way only audible to me. She affirmed to the whole cart load, yes she was indeed holding on.

Connie, the Mother of the Bride and present driver, halted the golf cart and the five of us piled out. Ta-ta, Onna and I unloaded the billowing white tulle bows with a circumference of a massive pizza and as full as a new mom’s bosom. Connie and Aunt Hazel (who happens to literally be Connie’s mother) fussed around to the airport gates for the Fastening of the Bows. Onna and I stood back, amused, as the Three Musketeers, fretted about whether to attach the bow three or four links down the fence, whether they were as puffed out and prominent as their potential, and gosh darned it, where the missing tails could have gone to. Heaven forbid, Ta-ta, a longtime friend-like-family to Connie and Aunt Hazel, had used the tail, not the pipe cleaner, to attach the bow to the chainlink. Connie guffawed at Ta-ta’s disregard for the bow’s tail. The Three fiddled and fiddled until the recluse bow was tamed.

Meanwhile, Onna and I, with the exception of the occasional quick glance to one another, quietly observed the Three and take in the Southernness of it all. The Three Musketeers were local — as much a part of Eden, North Carolina as the Biscuitville down the road. Onna hailed from Minneapolis, and I from Silicon Valley. Both Onna’s husband and my own were hiking with the groom, Henry, and the other groomsmen as we helped prep for the wedding.

And so the preparation continued for hours: Onna and I looked to be helpful by flurrying around (but never in) the frenzied orbit of Ta-ta, Connie and Aunt Hazel. In the course of the day, we moved each row of ceremony chairs back four inches on the runway; we refolded all the 200-or-so napkins in a triangle instead of their original three-fold after the Three decided doing so was instrumental in transforming the hangar into a proper party place. In the midst of all of this Connie looked first me, then Onna, in the eye, and asked/declared “I’m a b**, aren’t I?” Shocked, we snickered and denied it. At one point or another, emotions overwhelm us all and make us act uncharacteristic. This was, understandably, one of those days for Connie.

With no warning, the Three Musketeers decided they were much behind schedule and must immediately flock back to the house to get themselves primped. Ta-ta seemed on edge about whether her dress would be subpar — the one she had originally planned on wearing also happened to be the dress of choice of her co-worker. In a flurry, the Three scrambled from the airport to Connie’s home.

Alas, it came time for Tori to walk down the airstrip-turned-aisle. Raw, concentrated joy illuminated her face as she gazed at her husband-to-be. As I sat in one of the perfectly-aligned chairs beneath a layer of straw and witnessed the brief ceremony, I reflected on how Tori and Henry’s wedding looked very different from that of Jake and I. Yet I could not help but feel an arguably very similar emotion to Tori as she stood at the altar. A talented guitarist and singer played a country-fied version of the song, “How Long Will I Love You” by Jon Boden (great song, IMHO), which happens to be what Jake and I walked down the aisle to at the close of our ceremony. Though I was sitting in midway back in the crowd and Jake was beside Henry, we caught eyes and were transported from the North Carolina airstrip to our San Diego ceremony on a lagoon.

All of us celebrate-ers transitioned from the airstrip to the hangar to the seat in front of a navy blue triangle napkin. Soon after, the mashed potato buffet opened and the fog machine turned on full-force, presumably to entice those who may not choose to dance to get on their feet more anonymously. Despite the comfort of the fog, not many chose to groove. That, of course, did not stop Jake and I from getting out there. After all, we dream of being professional “Party Starters” (if you need someone to get the dancing going at your next event, let me know!).

Soon enough and a belly-full of cake later, Tori and Henry flew off in a private plane. Literally, they flew from Eden to Charlotte. Figuratively, they flew into a life of mysterious oneness.

I could try to make some grandiose and sweeping point about how this story illustrates that though our rituals vary, culture to culture, emotions and human needs remain largely similar. Truthfully though, I just wanted to share some of what I thought to be a hilariously up-close and stereotypical Southern experience. After all, it may be best to experience Biscuitville vicariously.

Before Michael greeted me with words, he welcomed me to Chipotle with an enthusiastic ear-to-ear grin. The kind of smile that just refuses to hide.

“Hello mam’, how are you doing today?” he inquired benevolently.

Struck by his warmth, I returned the smile, offered a hearty affirmation that I was “doing very well!” and asked how he was.

And so the exchange continued as he piled the rice, beans, chicken, pico de gallo, cheese and lettuce into my bowl. After I had paid, he wished me a “blessed” day. (How often do you hear that in the public workplace? But that’s a tangent for another time.)

Our conversation did not move and shake the earth; Michael and I did not figure out what Ukraine should do with separatists, or how to squelch ISIS.

But…maybe his exceptional, genuine outpour of kindness and care is a glimpse into how to live more fulfilling lives as individuals. Or more precisely, his heart and purpose behind his warmth may start turning the key to the door of fulfillment.

Instead of being concerned about working a “menial” job, he was consumed by making a positive influence on whomever he encountered. He acted with purpose. He put others ahead of himself. As a personal testament, his selflessness and warmth refreshed me more than my paradise iced tea.

Michael’s uncommon care tells me that, from his perspective, a day well spent, at the very least, means making people smile. Even in his job, he has a purpose that far exceeds making burritos. He sees potential to bless people by serving more than chips. His reason for being there is more than the paycheck.

The Michaels of the world seem to run through something like this filter:

“Did I offer peace today? Did I bring a smile to someone’s face? Did I say words of healing? Did I let go of my anger and resentment? Did I forgive? Did I love? These are the real questions. I must trust that the little bit of love that I sow now will bear many fruits, here in this world and in the world to come.” –Henri Nouwen

I’ll leave you with this to ponder: In what or in whom can we invest in to ensure we sow meaningful seeds, so to speak, wherever we are, be it in a cubicle, on the Senate floor…or behind the bar at Chipotle?