The dump is closed, all the wrong people are in cuffs, and there ain’t enough SNAP in the EBT for turkey but there’s a big ol’ ham living large in the White House.
Oh, well. We can still sing. Sing loud. You know the words.
Category: Holidays
Leaf me be
Autumn remains delightful, if you avert your eyes from the nation’s capital.
I’ve been mixing things up a bit. For openers: riding my way through The Fleet. Six different bikes in a week, including the Rivendell Sam Hillborne, pictured Saturday on the Paseo de las Montañas Trail.
I’m also riding different routes, or old ones backasswards. More dirt, with the mango Steelman Eurocross yesterday and the red one today. Yeah, I know, embarrassment of riches and all that.
Off the bike, I’ve been revisiting neglected recipes, like pasta al cavolfiore from the “Moosewood Cookbook.” You want to add maybe a half teaspoon of a good ground red chile to the tomato puree for that one.
Another old fave — a conventional eggs-and-taters breakfast, generally reserved for Sunday — makes a nice change from the boring old oatmeal or yogurt. For Monday’s lunch, I’ll scramble a couple more eggs and dump them, any leftover spuds, a small handful of arugula, a scattering of diced tomato, and a sprinkle of sharpish cheddar, atop warm flour tortillas. Fold and eat.
If the spuds didn’t survive Sunday maybe I’ll whip up the makings for a classic tuna salad sammich a la Craig Claiborne. I leave out the red onions because Herself hates uncooked onions, and the capers because I hate capers. Instead I add some chopped bread-and-butter pickle chips, because we can both agree on those. Haven’t added any minced jalapeño yet, but I can see it happening. Possibly tomorrow. You can’t stop me!
Rooting through my recipe binder the other day I stumbled across one I’d gone to the trouble of printing, but couldn’t recall ever actually cooking. It’s a Greek stew, from Sarah DiGregorio, and once I started putting it together it came back to me. Why did I only cook it the one time? Very easy, very good, even better the next day, and nicely suited to the cooler weather.
But then, the basic posole I’m making as we speak is even easier, and like Sarah’s stew, improves with age. It takes about five minutes of prep and two hours of simmering. Even the Irish can manage it.
Meanwhile, I’m leaving our Halloween lights up for Thanksgiving. Take that, turkeys!
Boo!
“My mommy always said there were no monsters — no real ones — but there are.” — Newt, in “Aliens”
Sing it, sister. I see one first thing every morning, if I dare to turn the lights on in the bathroom. And it follows me around all day, until I turn them out again.
Mama said there’d be days like this. I just didn’t think there’d be so many of them.
When did I stop ringing doorbells on Halloween and start answering them? Oh, Lord.
Thanks to outfits cobbled together by me sainted ma I have been a cowboy, Superman, and Mike Nelson from “Sea Hunt,” among other American icons. I even managed to talk mom into helping me suit up as Loadedman, a cartoon character I devised shortly before dropping out of college and going to work as a janitor.
She must’ve been so proud.
As an “adult” I have been a space pirate, Che Guevara, and once, memorably, Jesus H. Christ himself. Indeed, there was a time when I felt all that hair I was sporting limited not only my employment opportunities, but my costume options come All Hallows’ Eve.
All. That. Hair.
Sigh.
I didn’t know shit about limited options back then. Now the menu is down to a single item — basically, “Ugly-Ass Old Bald Dude.” The good news is, all I have to do for that one is get out of bed, take a leak, and put on some clothes.
In the dark, of course. Because there are monsters. I’ve seen them. They live in my bathroom mirror.
Happy Juneteenth
Stand for the things you know are right
It’s the truth that the truth makes them so uptight
In memoriam
Not all of the fallen are found on the battlefield.
Some don’t turn up until later.
Less of both sorts, please.
Toward that end, what say we give our men and women in uniform better civilian leadership? It’s not much to ask of those of us here in the rear with the gear where there is no fear.
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