Cheese Grits

These are the best cheese grits I've ever made. Maybe it's the four different cheeses and sprinkling some slivers of parmesan at the end. These grits are so good it's criminal, I feel guilty, even mentioning them. I have some with a big pat of butter, a liberal sprinkling of fresh black pepper and a grating of cheese. It's one of the best things I've ever eaten. I immediately go back for a second helping. I think I like them best with just a pat of butter and several good squeezes of black pepper, the corn seems so fresh. Slow grinding with granite wheels is best, so as not to heat the product. Grinding, of necessity, releases heat, energy has to go somewhere, the grindstones absorb that, as a matter of course. I can speculate, on what motivates me, but it's a small and restricted demographic. Me as me. Facilities Manager kind of day, elevator inspector, then the plumber, Phil,shows up and we talk about the back-flow preventer. Then talk with Pegi about a grant proposal. Just a bowl of tomato bisque (very good) at the pub. Still stuffed with grits. Caught up on the trash. Talked with Sara about the museum's future. Scurried home to beat the rain. Forgot cream, dammit, but I did remember orange juice. Picked up a footer, on the way home, for dinner. Sara had one for lunch and It looked so good. I've got a pain in my neck from sleeping wrong, which leads to self-medication, which leads to a pretty good buzz for a week-night. I do subscribe to the rules of decorum, for the most part; I don't fart and belch in public if I can help it, I try and not use the 'f' word more than once or twice a day, I stay reasonably clean for someone without running water. But I suspect I'll be slightly hung-over tomorrow. As a defense of that I'd say that nobody ever knew anyway, whether I was or not. No, really. Is my personality that flat? That you wouldn't know if I was drunk or not? Astra closes the bar, several nights a week, and she remembers the one night I stayed until closing, how funny I was, how I had everyone else in the bar, and the members of the band, collected down at the stage end, and I was doing a routine. Fact becomes fiction, as quick as nothing. Mull that. At two in the morning you don't have to be that amusing, god I love a good line. Have to meet the plumber early. Not having a bedside clock can drive you crazy with false starts, but I enjoy the confusion. Light is usually the determining factor, sometimes sound. At this time of year, when the days are getting shorter, it's overcast, and I've been medicating for a pain in the neck, I do occasionally get turned around, wonder whether it's night or day. Seldom gets in the way of doing my job, which is nebulous anyway, the description of which reads like a literal translation of the label on a Chinese rip-off of an American action figure. Speaking of dolls. I should go. I do have things I need to accomplish, but I'm struck with the fact that we have this tenuous thread of communication and I'm hesitant to give it up. Turn the radio on. Delta blues, slack guitar, everything makes sense, if you open it out. Isn't that what Olson said? Something like that. I'm funny and smart, which should be enough, but I'm not attractive, and that works against you, in the real world, what you're perceived to be. It's almost light, a purple gathering in the east, I should go shave, another day, go figure.