Saturday in CinCity. The Yes, Dammit, Still Here. The Grumpy Edition.
Not broken or fractured, but feeling a bit fragile and put-out. House arrest does not agree with me, though driving is really out of the question. My only exercise these days is walking the dog. But, 5 more days until the OR and baring my tush for my friends who work there. Whoopee.
It's been hot, hot, hot in CinCity, but as everyone knows, it's not the heat but the humidity, which is also quite oppressive. Big storms yesterday and last night have left us just slightly cooler and more like a perfect day in June. Everyone is out working, except me. My contribution these days are large bags of discards and piles to take to St. V de P and dinners. Hubby is loving this as does the dog since I like to walk him and give him treats of whatever. Last night fish tacos, tonight Cuban Chicken with Avocado Salsa. And I try to wash everything down in beer in my attempts to dissolve this kidney stone much too late in the game. I really don't like beer though, so have found that mixing it with rapsberry lemonade improves the taste of both.
Please don't judge me. It's all done for science.
Finally have seen the movie, Julie&Julia, about the adventures of a blogess and an American icon. Now I have the voice of Julia Childs ringing in my ears. Actually, more the voice of Dan Aykroyd playing Julia Childs which makes everything sound so much more ridiculous and enthusiastic. Tonight there's 3 more DVDs from the library to choose from and I've started Bleak House by Dickens because it's 989 pages and why the hell not. If I miss something along the way because of the pain medication who's to say? It's still Dickens with every well crafted sentence and the most beautiful collection of words ever put on paper. Love that man. Thinking though of trying Mastering the Art of French Cooking. It's a thought.
by April Lindner
Turn the knob. The burner ticks
then exhales flame in a swift up burst,
its dim roar like the surf. Your kitchen burns white,
lamplight on enamel, warm with the promise
of bread and soup. Outside the night rains ink.
To a stranger bracing his umbrella,
think how your lit window must seem
both warm and cold, a kiss withheld,
lights strung above a distant patio.
Think how your bare arm, glimpsed
as you chop celery or grate a carrot
glows like one link in a necklace.
How the clink of silverware on porcelain
carries to the street. As you unfold your napkin,
book spread beside your plate, consider
the ticking of rain against pavement,
the stoplight red and steady as a flame.