Saturday, June 8, 2013

Career Choices And Where They Lead

Last night a damn horsefly (I'm guessing, I didn't see it) bit my toe and within an hour three of my toes and half my foot were swollen and itchy and painful, too. It was yuck. Mr. Moon got me an ice bag and  within a few hours, I'd forgotten about the whole thing except that this morning I feel like the toxin went from my foot to my head and now my whole being feels somewhat itchy and twitchy and a little mean, too, like a horsefly itself, maybe.

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.


  1. The was something mean and twitchy in the air. So many people seem to have been feeling it. I think it's seeping away now. Oh I hope so. Love to the mama of the birthday boy!

  2. I've been waiting to see the praying mantises that were supposed to hatch out when it got warm enough. Besides, those bugs are truly MEAN, they, ahem, eat the heads off their paramours when they're mating to give the mom some enzymes or some shit.

    That'll learn you for having sex!

    I think you'd have been a fabulous porn star, at least an exotic dancer. With chickens.

  3. I, for one, am glad you were not a porn star.

  4. Woohoo! Birthday dinner sounds super yummy, and if i get on a plane now.. have a layover in Chicago or Denver or someplace, i should make it on time! Set an extra spot for me. :) Snort.

    I'm glad i'm not a porn star too. I sometimes wish i'd been an archaeologist. But i'd have had to retire a few years ago. No porto-potties in the Egyptian desert, and my bladder isn't what it used to be....

  5. I've been reading a Bill Buford book to my daughter called At Home; it's a very desultory history of rooms in houses, with many details about food. Victorian dinner menu for six: "mock turtle soup; fillets of turbot in cream; fried sole with anchovy sauce; rabbits; veal; stewed rump of beef; roasted fowls; boiled ham; a platter of roasted pigeons or larks; and, to finish, rhubarb tartlets, meringues, clear jelly, cream, rice pudding and soufflé."

    The wv's are messing with me lately.
    This one is table nynjoye

  6. I loved that book "Heat" -- and I always love Bill Buford. I hope your birthday party went well -- one of these days, I'm going to show up on your doorstep in Lloyd -- perhaps with my Airstream -- and sit a while.

  7. I love Hank's comment. I don't know I could imagine you as a sexy sultry pornstar chef but then you might not be as open to making Owen his cheese toast and the very best mom, the laundry and mopping of floors doesn't fit so maybe not. Happy yummy dinner celebration! Sweet Jo

  8. I had a great comment and then poof, it was eaten by the Internet. Now I can't remember what I read. Sigh.

  9. Angella- I frequently have to wonder how much of what we are feeling comes from our own lives or from some sort of planetary blah-blah. I doubt I'll ever know.

    Beth Coyote- Ah, one never knows. Ha! I'm pretty sure I was put here to be a mother. But you know what leads to motherhood- uh-huh.
    And don't tell anyone, but I may have bitten a few heads off in my time.

    Mr. Downtown- As well you should be! The second I laid eyes on you, I knew my destiny. So there.

    Mary- Archeologist or anthropologist- those are two career choices I sort of considered. A lack of bathrooms would not deter me. I can pee outside anywhere. Although pooping...well. I do like my privacy.

    A- Table enjoy indeed!

    Elizabeth- The party is tomorrow. And you shall always be welcome. You know that.

    Sweet Jo- Moot point, eh? Haha! I bet that there are porn stars who cherish their grandchildren and make them cheese toast. I am not judging them.

    heartinhand- Well, if it comes back to you, here we are. It's the thought that counts.

  10. "I don't know why. I just report these things." Well I am glad you do report all of these things.

    Yay for Miss Baby. I hope she's not too sad about not actually producing any babies :)

  11. Maybe your foot assailant was a deer fly? Those things can produce a heck of a bite. My grandmother used to swell up like crazy when they bit her. You'd probably already know if you were allergic to deer flies, though!

    Poor Miss Baby. I still think she's leading a double life. Maybe she's a porn star in the chicken world?

  12. I like the diagnosis "itchy and twitchy." I think I will use it today if I can find an ICD-9 code for it.

  13. Well, I'm glad that it wasn't a snake bite. Those are really not pretty. Good that you weren't a porn star, although you probably would be retired by now. And awfully tired.


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