Monday, December 3, 2012
It's a foggy morning here in Lloyd, Florida. I can barely see to the chicken coop. Well, that's a lie. I can see the chicken coop perfectly well although it is a bit blurry at the edges and it seems to sort of dissolve into the trees behind it. So, maybe...magic?
Nah. Just excess and visible moisture in the air. It's supposed to get up to 79 degrees today. We shall see about that.
I'm in a weird mood. Like, "This is not my beautiful life."
Okay, it is, but maybe I was supposed to be living in New York City, the editor of Vogue or something. Maybe I was supposed to be living in some spiritual community in New Mexico, the resident goddess and spiritual master of New Age Rock Reading and Spirit Communing.
Maybe I was supposed to be Keith Richards' personal chef.
Maybe I was supposed to be a novelist living on one of the islands off the coast of Georgia.
Maybe I was supposed to be living in Mexico, running a small boutique hotel on Isla Mujeres.
Maybe I was supposed to be a marine biologist studying the great whale sharks.
Maybe I was supposed to be living up the road a few miles, making organic goat cheese.
Maybe I was supposed to be Bill Murray's personal chef.
Maybe I was supposed to be Bill Murray.
I doubt it.
Maybe I should get off my ass and go take a walk and go to the grocery store and come back here and wait for Jason to come out with the boys. I miss my boys so much. Lily asked Owen what he wanted Boppy and Mer Mer to get him for Christmas. He said that he would like a rock and a palm tree.
We joked about that all weekend. There are an awful lot of palm trees in Apalachicola. Even on our lot. We used to have some oak trees on that lot but the crazy man across the street from us CUT THEM DOWN! We had to take him to court and everything. He's dead now.
I don't think anyone is mourning him too much. That's the feeling I get. He cut other people's trees down too. How crazy and mean do you have to be to cut down other people's trees? Some people say you're not supposed to talk ill of the dead. I say why not? It's not like they're going to hear you and get their feelings hurt.
I can't figure out what to cook anymore. I screwed the pooch on that mullet last night. I don't know what I did wrong but it just wasn't much good. The tartar sauce I made was fine, though. I put dill relish and those little salty round things in my tarter sauce. Capers. That's it. I can't remember shit. I hope I'm not having TIA's. Sometimes I wish I was a fifties' housewife and could just make a week's worth of dinners that looked like this: Spaghetti with meat sauce. Tuna casserole. Macaroni and cheese. Meat loaf. Pot roast. Hot dogs and baked beans. Fried chicken with mashed potatoes.
Well, those days are gone.
On Friday night I ate curried tofu and vegetables at the Gibson Inn. It was delicious. It was as creamy and gingery as some sort of transcendental rice pudding. It probably wasn't good for me. The next night I ate beef. This is in Apalachicola where seafood is the deal. Well, we had some of that too. Also, those tamales.
I think the best thing we ate all weekend was the bread and roasted red pesto that came with the meals at the Gibson. It was like eating the most delicious adult pimento cheese in the entire world. Oh Lord. I just remembered that I have some of that in the refrigerator. I didn't finish all my beef and we got it boxed to go and I added all the rest of the bread and the pesto that was on the table. I had to restrain myself from adding what was left on other people's tables.
Oh Jesus. I'm a lucky girl. Maybe this IS my beautiful life.
I don't think I deserve it if it is. I better go take a walk and humble myself and steep myself in pain and suffering. That might help.
I wonder where you can buy some sackcloth? They should sell that shit at Publix. Buy one, get one free. Ashes included.
Right next to the bakery.
Be well, y'all.