I don't know why. I just report these things.
Okay. Here's something that's been bothering me. There's a commercial for some sort of TV thing and I don't even know what it is. I think maybe a type of delivery system to, you know, get the channels to your own personal television set and while I've been struggling to learn to use a remote, TV technology has gone through the roof and you can now watch TV on any device in your house, up to and including your microwave, probably, although I have no idea how to do any of it and still can't really use the remote but THAT IS NOW WHAT I CAME HERE TO TALK ABOUT, no, it's this commercial where they tell you that now you can record up to six shows at one time WHILE YOU'RE WATCHING ANOTHER SHOW and I'm like...what?
What in god's name are the odds that there would be six shows on at the same time you wanted to watch later? And who has time for watching that many TV shows? We often end up watching reruns of Storage Wars simply because out of the ten thousand choices available to us, that's the only thing which sounds vaguely interesting. Maybe there's something wrong with us. Well, I'm sure of that but not in the TV sense although now I think there probably is.
Okay. Glad to get that off my chest.
I'm reading this book.
I'm enjoying it a lot. It's the story of a guy who decides to get inside a real chef's kitchen, in this case, a restaurant in NYC owned by Mario Batali, and become a kitchen slave and learn some shit and boy, he did. What I'm learning from reading the book is that I don't really know any shit about cooking but have been managing to fake it for fifty years with my good looks. So, inspired by the book, I took out two venison roasts from the freezer last night and have already this morning browned those suckers in some bacon fat and olive oil and have them in the crock pot (which no restaurant worth a damn would ever use but I am not heating up my oven all day, even at a ridiculously low temperature, not in this heat) with a broth made up of red wine and lots of other secret ingredients (not really, I'm just too lazy to list them) and I'm a little excited about that.
Maybe by the time I've finished reading the book I'll be rolling out my own pasta and cutting it by hand but I seriously doubt it. In the meantime, it's nice to know that what we think of as a pot roast represents one of the oldest and most venerated of cooking techniques for the less-tender cuts of meat, both domesticated and game, and tonight we shall have, hopefully, a fine dinner. I may even do something I've never done in my life (at least intentionally) which is to REDUCE the broth to make a sauce. Not gravy. Real sauce. Tomorrow I'll slice some of that meat and put it out when we have Hank's family birthday party, along with the shrimp salad which he wants. A North Florida surf and turf, if you will.
All of this means that now I need to get to town to purchase shrimp and other ingredients I'll be needing and so I better get going. The garden needs attention, Mr. Moon and I are discussing moving around a little bit of bedroom furniture to make our new bedroom a tiny bit more bedroom-like, and I'm sure there are other things I should be and could be doing such as washing the chicken shit off of various porch floors.
I am wondering if perhaps I should have chosen the career of porn star instead of the one I picked, which was that of being a mother and housewife because for sure I would be retired now. Or dead. Whatever. These are just normal thoughts for a woman who is about to have a nice little birthday party for her son which means that she has now given approximately four hundred and twelve nice little birthday parties in her lifetime if you throw in the ones she has given for a mother and brothers, at various times.
It's a beautiful day in Lloyd, even for the mean and itchy and twitchy, even for the never-retired housewife, even for the irreverent and profane. And the kitchen in this very old house already smells wonderful. Even as I write this, I can feel the meanness dissipate, I feel a little less itchy or twitchy, and Miss Baby has finally gotten off her nest to eat and drink which is a cheering sight and I guess, I suppose, I am almost certain I am glad I was not a porn star.