Sunday, February 3, 2013
Some Days Are Like That
Mr. Moon liked this morning's pancakes so much that he ate them as slowly as he could and then went and got some more and the whole time he was eating he was trying to figure out how we could market them. He thinks we could sell them frozen so that people could heat them up in their own kitchens.
Sounds like a lot of damn work to me.
Then he suggested that we do a reality show called Real Housewives Top Chef.
I pointed out that I really only cook about twelve things and it might get boring real fast, especially considering the fact that we don't have wine tastings or cocktail parties or affairs or drive Ferraris. Also- no cleavage. Real Housewives always have cleavage.
They were good pancakes. Mr. Moon has taken to cooking sweet potatoes on the grill, wrapped in aluminum foil. We go crazy and buy the smaller organic ones and I don't know if it's the grill-cooking or the organic goodness but they are the finest sweet potatoes we've ever eaten. I don't even put any butter on mine. Just split 'em open, sprinkle with cinnamon and eat the whole thing. Peel and all. But when he cooked sweet potatoes last night he made two extra and I used a half of one of those in today's pancakes, smushed up with half of a very-finely chopped apple and pecans and lots of cinnamon and some brown sugar. And oat bran. And buttermilk.
They were pretty, too, all brown and golden.
I feel so flat today. I don't know whether I need to force myself to get out and walk or go back to bed. I hear there's some big game on this evening. Haha! If you held a gun to my head I couldn't tell you who was playing. It would probably behoove me to go to Publix and buy something for Mr. Moon and our neighbor to snack on while they watch it. Also, we are almost out of bananas.
I think you'd have to hold a gun to my head to get me to do THAT. Go to the store. Although Lily's working and it would be more incentive to see her for a few seconds than to have someone hold a gun to my head. If someone did that, held a gun to my head, I'd probably just laugh.
I need to quit talking about guns to my head. Honestly, I'm not feeling especially suicidal. Or at all.
It seems so wrong to talk about such things on such a beautiful day. I should be sermonizing and discussing the birds and the way the air feels like so completely perfect in every way. I should be talking about something that really matters, maybe, like how the fucking stupid Boy Scouts are probably going to finally allow homosexuals into their ranks- not because it's the right goddam thing to do but because their financial contributors are finally putting their feet down about it. Money talks, y'all, even to the Boy Scouts of America. Even if Rick Perry (who can kiss my ass) thinks that they should keep their ranks pure.
I could be talking about any of those things.
I could be taking a walk. Or writing a letter or a book or a poem. Nah, scratch that. I'm not a poet. Or doing yoga. Or laundry. Or planning my spring garden. Or making a business plan to sell sweet potato pancakes. Or planning a trip. Or making a list of all the things I am grateful for. Or researching how to lose thirty pounds in thirty days so I don't have to wear a muumuu to Jessie's wedding. A mother-of-the-bride muumuu.
I could be doing any of these things.
But I'm not.
I'm just sitting here having the saddies, as my friend Sue used to say.
I just went outside and got comfortable in a chair, hoping to sit still enough with my camera at the ready to take a nice shot of some of the birds at the feeder. I turned the camera on and got the Recharge Batteries message so I got back up and came in and took the batteries out and put them in the charger and plugged it into the wall.
Wouldn't it be nice if humans had a simple capacity to do the same?
Well. I'm sure there are plenty of ways to do that. Oprah could probably clue me in on a few.
But can she make pancakes?
Oh hell. Probably.
I guess I'll go take a walk. A slow, short walk.
Decent Sunday, y'all.