I didn’t have a mask to keep bugs out of my teefers on the descent of Tramway Road.
Firsts:
Hey, Spike, you missed a few flowers.
• Riding the bike without a mask. That was fun. I’ve been half-stepping it, draping a Buff around my neck, but yesterday I left it at home. I’m still all buffed up; I’m just not Buffed up. Ho, ho.
• Having people over for drinks. Yup. Couple friends from the ’hood who are likewise all shot up came by for strawberry margaritas and a bit of guacamole. We hung out on the patio, shooting the breeze and enjoying what little foliage Spike the Terrorist Deer found unpalatable.
Two little things, to be sure. But satisfying nonetheless after a very long year indeed. Next up: Dancing on Sundays!
This reminds me of the visual migraines I used to get as a teenager.
So. There I was, doing a bit of yard maintenance with the old string trimmer, when I heard a pop.
The first thing that comes to mind in these parts is, “Did someone just try to bust a cap in my ass?” So I scan the yard for assailants and see bupkis, unless one of the house finches at the feeder has a 9mm Beretta concealed somewhere beneath his feathers.
Then I have a look behind me.
Oopsie.
My guess is the string trimmer found a small chunk of brick paver or a stone or whatever and pitched a Shohei Ohtani fastball at the sliding glass door. Right on the money it was, too. And I do mean money.
In other yard news, the wildife cam reports that Spike the Terrorist Deer and a pal popped round last night to eat most of the roses and sample the immature fruit on the ornamental pear tree while a raccoon inspected the grass for interesting tidbits. Just two more indicators that yards are a plot by the home and garden/psychiatry/whiskey cartels to create a perpetual-motion money machine.
The ornamental pear is blooming … just in time for the morning low to dip below freezing again.
We’re not down to eating the backyard foliage like Spike the Terrorist Deer. Not yet, anyway.
But it has been about 10 days since our last grocery trip, and we’re having to get creative.
Last night I was scrounging around in the pantry like an old bear fresh from hibernation and thought: “Hmm. Must be something I can do with canned beans other than make emergency burritos.” This is the kind of burrito you make when you don’t feel like going through all the rigamarole involved in making a proper pot of frijoles.
Which I was not. It was my birthday, f’chrissakes.
So I hit The New York Times Cooking site. This is well worth the price of a subscription to The Old Grey Lady. It’s not geared strictly for the condo chef with an eight-burner Wolf gas range and All-Clad out the arse. You’ll find plenty of pantry possibilities too.
I made a few adjustments. Didn’t have any mozzarella, so I used Monterey Jack. Also, I tossed a generous dollop of cilantro-jalapeño salsa in with the tomato paste, and added a pinch of smoked paprika to the spices.
And when it came out of the oven I sprinkled it with some coarsely chopped cilantro and a bit of grated Parmigiano-Reggiano.
Herself contributed a side salad and that was that.
Ali Slagle, who provided the recipe, also offers a snazzier black-bean version. We may try that one down the road. We’re flat out of Jack now, but we still have some sharp Irish Cheddar.
Miss Mia Sopaipilla, The Last Cat Standing, checks the southeast perimeter for any sign of Spike the Terrorist Deer.
Things are greening up and budding out, and staff seems preoccupied with other matters, so Mia stands the watch.
In addition to the wine delivery we had a couple of packages to drop off at USPS, so I strapped a Wald basket on the rear rack of the Soma Double Cross.
One never knows. The sneaky sonofabitch might like cat food.
Meanwhile, staff kitted up for another wine run yesterday afternoon. We chatted briefly with Herself the Elder via phone, next to her closed bedroom window, and then scurried back to El Rancho Pendejo as a light sprinkle began.
We saw quite a few cyclists on the Tramway bike path, in some cases moms herding mobs of children. I think of being on lockdown with a herd of bored and restless rug monkeys, and I wish I’d been kinder to me sainted ma, who was sentenced to life without parole as a housewife and mother.
Elsewhere, I see our “leaders” have been up to the usual, which is to say not much barring high crimes and misdemeanors.
It really is long past time for the press to quit covering what Chazbo Pierce calls “the daily briefings from the Coronavirus Superfriends,” which have devolved into miniature campaign rallies for Il Douche, free telemarketing for his only product, bullshit.
There is no breaking news to be had at this surgical theater of the absurd, and responsible journalists should take the time to suck it up, watch the comedy, pluck the rare diamond from the dung, and pass the stone, with an addendum tallying the ratio of facts to lies. No diamonds? No distribution. See James Fallows at The Atlantic for more. I like James so much that I ponied up for a subscription.
In other news, United Airlines is cordially invited to go fuck itself. Jesus. These people are completely without shame. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I would rather pay to push my Subaru uphill into the wind, wearing roller skates and this goddamn ankle brace, than fly United for free.
Spike the Terrorist Deer is back, and he brought his girlfriend with him.
They laughed at Paul Revere, too.
But Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein (commander, 1st Feline Home Defense Force) was right. They’re out there, and not even an augmented Wall will stop ’em.
Speaking of spooked deer, Kamala Harris apparently hit Smilin’ Joe with The Big Light last night, and by all accounts I’ve read this morning he did not handle it well, not one itty-bitty bit.
This is the thing that makes me nervous about Smilin’ Joe. He’s old, and he’s white, and like Gore, Kerry and The Hilldebeast before him, he believes it is His Turn, and that all these other people are horning in on his act.
“G’wan, get away from me, kid, y’bodda me.”
Maybe he gets the nomination. Maybe he even wins. I don’t have a feel for the deal yet.
But he looked an awful lot like Spike in that spotlight last night.
Mad Blog Media 