I’ve just had an omelet with cheddar melted in the center, expertly cooked in one of Emeril’s stout little pans, served with cracked pepper and half of a toasted and buttered English muffin, there on the edge of the giant platter (DH went dish-shopping without me; I haven’t voiced it, but I believe pioneers may have used similar dishware, weighting down the wagons). The other buttered half, bearing a respectable layer of signature seedless raspberry jam, awaits in the pantry.
You expect me to hop into the Bentley and head uptown, now, right? Ah, close..
Fat-free egg mixture in a carton is more the reality, as is 1/2 a slice of Velveeta (1.5g fat); someone left an Emeril pan at Goodwill (imagine!), and there’s always a grinder of black peppercorns here ever since I realized they taste incredibly good; the *butter* is, rather, devastatingly, almost-fat-free margarine spritz; and indeed, Trappist monks made the always-fat-free jam (God bless them!).
I have no pantry, though I have had — in the third-floor walkup, which was on the ground floor, keeping us close to demented pigeons. Don’t think for a minute that they’re a stupid bird; they know exactly which room you’re sitting in, and have no qualms about hopping up from the dank, mossy alley to peer in and remind you that it’s always pigeon-feeding time. I’m glad I did not know Stephen King at the time, but of course, I’d seen Hitchcock’s The Birds..
Presently (despite much dithering with a built-in carpenter), orange countertop — to match the historic Congoleum flooring — abounds in the 24-cabinet kitchen. If it had a pantry, it would be there, too. As a matter of fact, the builders or addition-builders were so fond of the countertop, they also lined the walls of the downstairs half-bathroom with it, which some tenant covered over with gray and green swan-studded wallpaper. Someone once here, perhaps the swan-folk — I fear to ever meet them — decided royal blue would make a wonderful trim paint color for the windows, in between panes of the windows, the undercabinet of the sink, and a door. It went so nicely with the sculptured avocado green rug, I was loath to disturb it. Mightily. Gustily disturb it.
(Ever try pounding a nail through freshly de-swan’d countertop? No? Good. Don’t — the wall will crack.)
The Bentley is real, though.
No, it’s not.
My trusty steed is like many other cars here — a little red bunny rabbit — except probably only mine has a dog-feces’d shoe in the trunk, which I keep forgetting to bring to the back yard to restore/burn/bury. Suffice it to say someone in this immediate area walks a pal from the Mesozoic Era. They were (will again be?) my favorite shoes, of course.
This morn, I read someone whose writing, I thought, reminded me of a blend between Dorothy Parker and Edgar Allen Poe. Hence, I re-read Ms. Parker’s short story, “Big Blonde” and for the first time, read of Mr. Poe’s mysterious end. (And of all the tragedies that preceded it, that poor soul!) It was certainly not the blend I’d originally thought it might be, and it wouldn’t have been a compliment to my admired writer at all to mention the other writers — other than to say as always, “Excellent writing!”
What talent surrounds us.
Between writings, musings, tales of grand-/parenting of furry-/kids, greener living, news commentary, poetry, photography, painting, reviews, wine-tasting, farming, ranching, cooking, music, travel, sewing, languages, humor, contemplation, prayer, love-ing near and far, sailing, etc., I am astounded anew every morning, just by logging into WordPress and clicking on my Reader.
It’s an awesome deterrent to housecleaning and/or to heading uptown in the Bentley with hopes of removing a problem-shoe later today. And… it makes me smile, think, sigh, nod and get up off this chair.
Thank you, on all counts. ❤