Well, I have been very glum the last week or so, and have not wanted to spread that around. Ergo, no entry.
This afternoon though, as I gazed out the front window at the fog, the soggy wet snow, and the dripping tree branches, I thought, "Wow, I am really glad to be alive right now!"
I have felt great ever since. If staring out at a dismal day can do this for my mood, what might sunshine accomplish?
Immediately I headed for the kitchen. I found myself looking around for something sweet to eat. Nothing! Out came the apron. Out came the mixing bowls and the measuring spoons and pans. Out came the eggs and milk and one very fresh Florida Orange from Christmas. A little over an hour later I sat down with a nice cup of tea and a fresh slice of Fresh Orange Loaf. Grand!
Over my cuppa, I observed our neighbor across the street washing his car in the wintry drizzle. Magarac is over eighty years old. He walks miles daily, with a gait that resembles a jaunty teenage boy out looking for fun. He observes his environment with interest and humor. For instance, he knows when I leave my house and for how long I am gone. He can even guess accurately where I have been while away.
He is not famous. He is not rich. I admire him a great deal and find his approach to life inspiring. I have come to realize that it is not that he is old that impresses me so much as that he is happy. Our time here, however long or short, is best spent in this way, to my way of thinking.
Tonight's menu includes the worst chicken soup ever produced in my kitchen. I am not sure what went so terribly wrong; several things come to mind. Salt, I did not add any salt. I did not add any ingredients that contained salt. It needed a little salt. What was I thinking? Then there are the noodles. Overcooked noodles are not my favorite. The effect of an absence of salt and the presence of overcooked noodles destroyed the appeal of my soup.
I will try to liven up the meal by adding some spicy turkey balls to the soup and serving fresh baked seed bread on the side.
Attila arrives home these days covered with wood chips. He has wood chips in his boots, his overalls, his pockets and even (gasp) in his underclothing. He is a walking tinderbox. The wood chips have migrated to every nook and cranny of the house. I find them in carpets, on chairs and even on the keyboard from time to time.
At first I feared that I might get "slivers" in my feet from walking on them, but this has not happened. The wood chips sit benignly on the floors and furniture, reminding me how long it has been since I have dusted.
Although Attila arrives home at a much earlier hour during the winter months, it is still dark or almost so when he gets here. Our evenings are spent reading, chatting and occasionally curling up in front of the television set with a rented video, a home made pizza and soft drinks. This is a very pleasant life we lead.
There was a time when I lived in a larger city and loved the busy streets and cafes. I spent my time in public places, sometimes meeting with friends, but mostly sitting solitaire, writing copious amounts of poetry and academic tomes. I loved the experience. I cherish the memories.
Variety has been good to me.
|RECIPES :: Cast
By the Easy Chair
The Dearly Departed
by Elinor Lipman
On the Screen
The Mists of Avalon
with Anjelica Huston
Temp: 5` C
Wind: SW 13 km/h
Sunrise 7:48 AM EST
Sunset 5:45 PM EST
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