Gonna Miss My Baby; Gonna Be Alright

You know, I think that having Candy (yes, her name is Candy) come to clean my house has made me more productive in other areas. I had another full and busy day and got a lot done. 
First off, I had another walk. I have walked almost nine miles this week which I feel all the better for. Well, except for the soreness and exhaustion. But...whatever. 

I walked past Harvey's and for whatever reason, Dracula is now lying down with the golf clubs on top of him. Like I said- mysterious. I didn't have any conversations with anyone at all on my walk. I just listened to the book I'm currently reading with my ears which is One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. I have no idea how many times I've read this book but it is such a good one. It makes me want to watch the movie again too. My god but the casting in that movie was so good. Poor Louise Fletcher who played Nurse Ratched did so damn well inhabiting her character that she had a hard time ever getting another acting job. Forever and forever she will be thought of as the Big Nurse. Not a nice character. 

Not someone you'd want to know in any way, shape, or form. 

Nicholson was great, of course (in my opinion anyway) and so was everyone else in the entire movie. But my heart, my true heart, will always be with Will Sampson who played Chief Bromden. 

Okay. I can't talk about either the character or the actor without crying so we shall move on. 

I've done laundry today- well, obviously. Clean sheets day. I've made Glen's cookies for his trip. I roasted peanuts for his snacking pleasure. I made tartar sauce to go on the fish he is taking with him. What else have I done? Oh, who knows? Who CARES? 

One thing I did was to start a pot of collard greens. Now these are store-bought collards because the ones in the garden are at least a month or so away from eating. But I thought, "Oh, what the hell?" and bought a bag and I'm cooking them with a tiny bit of bacon, onions, balsamic vinegar, vegetable Better Than Bouillon, soy sauce, liquid smoke, and salt and pepper. And they are bitter. Bitter greens. And not the good kind of bitter. Collards are not supposed to be bitter. Like they were picked late. 

I should have known better. And I would have if I'd read the recipe on the back of the package. 

Are you fucking kidding me? Or as Billy said when I sent him the picture- Gtfo of my face. 

Southern? Southern WHERE? I'm thinking Yugoslavia or Norway. Or some place like that. Do you see the ingredients list? I mean, first off- potatoes? In collard greens? Three pounds? 
And then, AND THEN, MILK!

Whoever wrote that recipe needs to go to prison. 
To add to the travesty, the instructions say to cook the greens by sautéing  them in olive oil for 3-4 minutes. I guarantee you that they would be inedible even if you didn't add the milk. 
Jesus Christ Almighty. 

You can't just wilt a collard green. You can wilt spinach. You can wilt mustard greens. You can even wilt kale, I guess, but wilting collards is like wilting iron. Even the youngest collards want at least an hour of cooking. That's just the way it is. Hell, I've been cooking these for an hour and they aren't anywhere near tender. You want your collards to be tender.

I think I may have discussed this recipe before. If so, forgive me. I can't remember shit these days but the milk and potatoes seem to ring a very distant, quiet bell. 
But anyway, I am thinking that I need to send a letter to this Bo Herndon guy who supposedly grows these greens and let him know that every southerner who reads that recipe just laughs and laughs and laughs. Also, that he should probably be picking his greens a little bit earlier. 

So los hombres de trabajo (the men of work, I think) have packed it up early for Friday night although I have been assured that they will be back tomorrow. I think there may be some partying going on between now and then, however. They seem to have been in a fairly festive mood today, playing what sounded to me like Mexican Euro Rap at a rather high volume. Funny how all of the pounding and hammering and sounds of sheet metal hitting the ground and drilling and sawing have not bothered me nearly as much as that music did. 
But I just can't get mad at these guys. They work so hard. I have been told by the main man of work that the house is essentially done and tomorrow they will finish the old kitchen's roof and hopefully, also the roof on the barn. 
"Thank you," I told him. "You have done such a good job. It looks beautiful."
"No problem!" he said. "It's nothing."

Uh. It's definitely not nothing. 

So Mr. Moon has just made us our Friday martinis and I am thinking about how it's going to be when he leaves tomorrow. As I told him a minute ago, I am so glad that he has this chance to do something he loves so much. And that is one hundred percent true. And it is also true that I will miss him. He is not just Maurice's human, he is mine too. But I am good by myself. I will not be suffering. When he is gone on one of these trips, I always feel as if I can give myself permission to do things that I may not usually do that make me happy like needlework. Or eating baby peas. 
These days we can text each other, send each other pictures and that is sweet. I'll send him pictures of what comes up in the garden and what the cats are up to, and he will send me pictures of where he is and what they are eating, and Cash, the dog, who hunts with them and whom he has known since he was a puppy. 

It will be sweet in its own way, the time we spend apart. 

And...I think I may be getting out one of the ducks while he is gone.

I'm thinking Saturday night. 
Yes, for us here in North Florida, an overnight temperature of 51 degrees is down-comforter worthy. I may only need the duckling and not the duck, but either way, Jack and I will enjoy that tremendously. 

All is well. Happy Friday, y'all. 

Love...Ms. Moon