MY GUESTBOOK
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I don�t like Josh Lyman, but at least now I understand him a little better.
One time, early in the campaign before the New Hampshire Primary, we were at the house in Huston for a blissfully free weekend�well, a blissfully free Saturday and a few hours early Sunday morning�and Matt decided he wanted to barbeque. That was fine. He�s a good cook, though Lou did nix his favourite �Kiss The Cook� apron because there were a few reporters there and she didn�t want to appeal to what she called �the kitschy base� when, apparently, we already had that demographic and needed to appeal to all the others ones.
Josh was passed out, exhausted, on the couch with the kids who were watching TV in the living room and Matt and I got a little distracted with each other in the kitchen and the steaks started to burn, setting off a smoke alarm started going off. Matt and I barely had time to realize what was happening when Josh had the kids outside and away from the house.
�Daddy, what�s happening?� Miranda asked, her voice wavering the way it did after she had a nightmare. �Is the house on fire?�
�No, baby, but I ruined dinner,� Matt said, crouching down in front of our little girl and hugging her in that tight-and-comforting way that seems to be a genetic automatic skill that appears in all good fathers. �Go get yourself strapped into the car. We�ll go get some drive-thru burgers.�
�Help your sister,� I called to Peter as the kids ran over to our car. �You want to join us, Josh?� I asked. He hadn�t been planning on staying for dinner, but Matt had put a steak on for him as well once he found his campaign manager fast asleep on the couch with one shoe on and his suit jacket draped over his torso.