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I fcking love brussel sprouts. Specifically the ones I'm eating right now. Which I just chopped the ends off, threw them in a pan with a bunch of olive oil and a bunch of 'italian seasoning' in a high oven until they got all roasted. Some of the leaves that fell off, were loose in the pan, seemed sort of dark brown, maybe burnt, but I didn't care, I would eat around them. Except then I popped one in my mouth. Omg. Like crispy delicate delicious chips that melt in my mouth.
Damn, I should have taken a photo. Now they are all in my belly and less photogenic.
I've been sick all week, I'm mostly better, though I still cough some and ache a tiny bit and in the morning I feel pretty horrible from being horizontal all night, but then I drink some water and neti and poke around and it's ok. And now I'm ready to be out in the world except its cold. Now, I know its Chicago. I know its winter. I don't really complain about cold, hell, I don't really even notice 'cold' as far as any temperature 30 degrees or higher. But its damn cold today. The kind where you have to coax the car and drive with a scarf and hat, the kind where bare skin instantly gets frigid. I went to workout, on a Saturday evening, like a rockstar, and then I decided to follow it up with a trip to the grocery store. Except I forgot the damn canvas bags. So I stopped back by the house, it was on the way, I left the car running, key in ignition, went inside. "I'm not here, I'm not here, I'm not here," I told the dog dancing around me, waiting for me to notice her, our ritual. I went to the store. I counted three cars in the parking lot running, no owner. It is a part of the weather that I love, these rituals, these assumptions and trust that are usually missing in a big city, but come out for extreme circumstances.
At the checkout, I kept telling them to shove more into my bags. I knew it would all fit. They kept trying to give me extra plastic bags too. "You'll have arms like orangutans, carrying that!" I hope so, I thought.
I rush home to cook winter food. Brussel sprouts, next foil-wrappedbeatsbeets in the oven. On the stove, lamb chili. Its 9 o'clock at night. I'm not that hungry. I just wanted the warmth, the smells, and also, tomorrow I can eat easily and without effort all day.
But the best part of my day, despite the tough competition of these brussel sprouts and the Wire marathon, was actually figuring out the problem with my novel that I've been marinating on for nearly 6 weeks. It apparently required me to chant excessively "what's your ticking clock? what's your ticking clock?" while clicking a ball point pen to the point of annoying myself. Suddenly all the pieces of plot realigned and made sense. Now I'm all excited about it again.
Damn, I should have taken a photo. Now they are all in my belly and less photogenic.
I've been sick all week, I'm mostly better, though I still cough some and ache a tiny bit and in the morning I feel pretty horrible from being horizontal all night, but then I drink some water and neti and poke around and it's ok. And now I'm ready to be out in the world except its cold. Now, I know its Chicago. I know its winter. I don't really complain about cold, hell, I don't really even notice 'cold' as far as any temperature 30 degrees or higher. But its damn cold today. The kind where you have to coax the car and drive with a scarf and hat, the kind where bare skin instantly gets frigid. I went to workout, on a Saturday evening, like a rockstar, and then I decided to follow it up with a trip to the grocery store. Except I forgot the damn canvas bags. So I stopped back by the house, it was on the way, I left the car running, key in ignition, went inside. "I'm not here, I'm not here, I'm not here," I told the dog dancing around me, waiting for me to notice her, our ritual. I went to the store. I counted three cars in the parking lot running, no owner. It is a part of the weather that I love, these rituals, these assumptions and trust that are usually missing in a big city, but come out for extreme circumstances.
At the checkout, I kept telling them to shove more into my bags. I knew it would all fit. They kept trying to give me extra plastic bags too. "You'll have arms like orangutans, carrying that!" I hope so, I thought.
I rush home to cook winter food. Brussel sprouts, next foil-wrapped
But the best part of my day, despite the tough competition of these brussel sprouts and the Wire marathon, was actually figuring out the problem with my novel that I've been marinating on for nearly 6 weeks. It apparently required me to chant excessively "what's your ticking clock? what's your ticking clock?" while clicking a ball point pen to the point of annoying myself. Suddenly all the pieces of plot realigned and made sense. Now I'm all excited about it again.
