So yesterday (Sunday) while cooking and drinking beer and watching Fareed and crime I made a post. A silly post. Here it is, even sillier on Monday morning.
And on the Seventh Day or Whenever She Had Time…. Fareed Zakaria with the King of Jordan. Strong milky coffee. Times. Fly in the Ointment—tax-related docs papers bills receipts spread all about. It’s not that hard to get my papers ready for the accountant since I don’t make a lot of money, own nothing except an aging car, second-hand and IKEA furniture and trinkets from around the world—oh yeah and my new North Face jacket!
Fleece-lined Tights Support Creative Sloth, Slow Cooking, and Rampant Anglophilia. Love Sundays. Never go to work-work unless it is critical on Sundays. Never depart my pleasant apartment on Sundays. Never take off my pajamas on Sundays.
So. Honestly. Do Sows Have Souls? Does Bill O’Reilly? There are cooking Sundays. My favorites. Usually my life is media-saturated. Books, Classes, Netflix, Aljazeera, CNN, PBS, WordPress, Facebook. My media purveyors always at hand—Surfy on my lap, TV a few feet away, books all around, newspapers piling up. It’s all good except when it’s not.
But Not On Cooking Sundays. For awhile I divest. I just chop and brown and pour and taste. I drink a little wine or beer. Sometimes, like now, I write or read a little between tasks. But the point is I don’t have to. Today is for fun. I’m going to incorporate some writing prompts from my current class into this post-for fun. All between that chopping, slicing, browning stuff. And between sips of Alaskan Amber Ale.
Today, I am preparing Roast Pork with Milk and Sautéed Kale with Alliteration. Here are all of the writing techniques we are learning to use more effectively in my Lyric Essay class: Image, Prose as Poem versus Essay; Metaphor, Line Break-Paragraph Bread, Spelunking with Diction, Rhetorical Questions, Assonance, Alliteration and Repetition, Apostrophe as Entry and Exit, Isolating the Senses. I want all of these wonderful devices to become second nature in my writing. Is that possible while cooking and drinking?
Once I Worked in a Restaurant. I Was Not Very Good At It. I Quit Before I Got Fired. Into the kitchen. Rub roast with salt and pepper really robustly. No spare sprinkles, rub dammit rub. Into the hot oil. Ouch. Splattery browning hot. Won’t really smell like a Sunday roast until the onions get tossed in…close bedroom door. Don’t want to be someone whose clothes tell the tale of the tastily tantalizing but powerfully potent treat you’ve just prepared.
Never Relinquish Your Right to Reorder the Day. I did not read the recipe carefully. After the 1 ½ hours of cooking with lid on pot, there is another 1 ½ hours of lidless time. Hmmm. There’s the beer, the food, the nap, the shower before Downton Abbey. Always the joy of life is overwhelmed by decisions.
Kale is Not My Friend and I Cannot Cross Enough Lines to Make It So. Afternoon. Crossing Lines on TV. Little bit high from my two bottles of Alaskan beer. Pork roast smells. That rich smell of bloody meat browned onioned oiled salted simmering. I’ve left the house heat on because it’s a chilly day, sunny of course—New Mexico after all—and the doors and windows open. Just for a little while. I’m sautéing the kale with garlic and olive oil, add pepper flakes and wine, how can this be bad? Awful. I hate it. My last attempt to learn to love kale. I am finished with you oh green curly vegetable so popular, so beloved of foodies. In fact I hate you. I’ll never be a real foodie, will I? But Crossing Lines is a great international crime adventure. Netflix. Makes me forget kale.
The End. Except for the album of glorious cooking photos.
Posted on March 2, 2015, in Living LIFE and tagged CROSSING LINES, KALE, PORK ROAST WITH MILK, SUNDAYS, writing. Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.
Since I don’t cook, it is all Greek to me, like breaking dishes…which is one of the reasons I am uncomfortable in the kitchen because I am careless and break things. Glad the meat was ok. Kale…I like kale…steamed and them dressed with vinegar…get out that vinegar curet that our Mother’s all had. well at least in Delaware