unqualified

I don't know what kind of certification I'd need to have in order to feel worthy of the company I had last night, sitting in the teepee at Addie's birthday event, listening to Greg and John and Chris play "Navajo Rug" and "Mountain Dew" and eating strawberries dipped in Molly's hand-whipped bourbon cream and feeding sticks into the fire on a full-moon night, eating some of Addie's Malian peanut sauce with rice and tomatoes, smelling the dutch-oven cobbler that Mo and Lee had put together. And listening to Laura's story about small-town stupidity, which began this way: "Last summer I had this job pressing flowers in newspaper, and we were using old copies of the Saratoga Sun, and there was this letter to the editor...." You can imagine where the story might go from there, but I like that it starts from pressed flowers.