Beyond the Pale

Assume something pleasant, smelling roasted coffee beans or a hint of vanilla. The day-lilies have exploded and I like to fry the buds, the roots make a decent meal, but the flowers, fried in a tempura batter, explode, like the entire history of cooking, upon your tongue. A cattail shoot is a lot like asparagus. Dark outside early, dense cloud cover, but this is supposed to be the last of it for a few days, and it's much cooler. Town was deserted, Lindsey made me a Bloody Mary at the pub and we talked about same-sex marriage; stopped at the museum, to chat with TR and the new/used radio and CD player had arrived. A lovely drive home, windy, and the trees were fairly dancing. Stopped at B's to check out the rubbed wax finish on the new island counter top. It's quite handsome, and the floor repair is certainly good enough to pass muster. Repairing wood-strip flooring is a pain in the ass. The driveway had drained well. Then I hit the usual technical glitch. The driver for the new modem will not install. I tried everything, but it won't install. Up against a wall here, so I set up the new CD player under a shelf in the kitchen and listened to the blues. Didn't feel like cooking, but I'd picked up a couple of lamb shanks from the discounted meat bin. New Zealand, sealed in plastic and in a cute mesh bag. They had originally been expensive, but had been reduced in price twice and were now quite cheap, $3.97, and I couldn't pass them up, a quart of chicken stock, and one of those large cans of roasted chopped chilies, into the crock pot with chopped onion and the Mexican spice mix. Eight hours later, presto, strip the meat from the bones and poke out the marrow. I like this with rice and beans. I eat from a hand-thrown plate that is fairly large and has a lip, and I can scrape up every last drop with a rolled tortilla. I only lick the plate if I'm alone, or dining with B. A little scoop of this on a fried polenta round would make a great appetizer. Pretty much reduced to the grill, the crock-pot, and a hot plate for my cooking until September. I enjoy it, and it's completely different than the winter mode of having both the oven and the infinitely variable stove-top up to speed at all times, 24/7. Good news from Amy that I can in fact just buy the cheapest laptop I can find, go to the pub, access my AOL account, and send the posts from there. Which means that I could just call TR, give him the access codes, have him send them, and I wouldn't even have to go to town. It's a non-elegant solution, seems to me, but workable; and I don't have to change my format, the idea of which overwhelms me with dread. Cold-pressed Ice brewed coffee, shade grown and organic, passed through the digestive system of wild pigs, ground in stone mills powered by the dance of maidens, twirling in a daze. Or something more conventional, a water-mill or steam, I'd rather not change my format. My sister calls and we have a very honest conversation about dying parents. Dad has fallen three times in the last month and he's on watch several times an hour. Mom has become the hag she never intended. It's awful, and the paper-work is copious. I'd go down, but there's nothing I can do, and it would suck the life out of me. Family crap is a mire of quick-sand. So much shit adheres to your shoes you can hardly move. The actual world, beyond an order of onions rings, pretty much sucks. Given my want, sweet pickles and black olives, I expected a lightning bolt, but all I got was a dribble of current, a failing, as the system faded into history. I remind myself, as I rewind my toy, that I should be alert to whatever happens.