Yesterday was the twenty-third San Francisco Aidswalk. Like all previous years, I spent the morning sleeping, lazing about, smoking, noshing, and taking a glorious long hot bath.
While other people sweated, and strained their muscles, and slogged painfully for a very good cause, I luxuriated and self-indulged. Snored.
You see, Savage Kitten and I have this wonderful tradition that started when I still worked at the restaurant. Since I would have gone to bed late the night before, I would pay her to do the walk. I haven't worked at the restaurant in years, but we never altered this routine.
Heck will freak over before I get up that early on a Sunday.
[Actually, Heck sort of freaked over six weeks ago, when I got up at an unHashemish hour in preparation for Israel in the Gardens, and kinda freaked a second time three weeks ago when I participated in the Pride Parade as part of the great big Jewish contingent that included too diverse a spectrum. But never mind. Tradition is tradition. I do not wake up for the Aidswalk. ]
So, having done my good deed for the day (by writing a biggish cheque the night before), I rested the rest of the just.
Simply lay there twitching most of the time.
Several different pipe tobaccos. Cigars. A noodly dish for breakfast. Coffee. Tea. Fruitjuices. Azumanga Daioh. Books. Dictionaries.
Scratched. Toe-twiddled. Stretched. Yawned.
THE HEARTFELT SORROW OF THE CHICKENS
I was making a spicy lamb curry (ground coriander seeds, turmeric, cumin, galangal, nutmeg, pepper, onion, garlic, ginger, chilies, coconut milk, lime juice, fish paste, fish sauce, tomato, lemon grass, etcetera) when she returned in late afternoon, carrying a bucket of fried chicken. A humongous family-size bucket - evidence of mass murder and lamentation in the hen house.
Very very sad - if you're a chicken.
As it turns out, women who do the Aidswalk are precisely like women going into their menstrual period. They are drained, tired, sweaty, limp, and they need enough fried chicken to feed a small city. The only difference is that they do not require the large tub of ranch dressing after walking. That they will need later, during that special time of month (it's a blessing). Fried chicken (and ranch dressing) are somekind of karmic equivalent. Of essential importance.
Lamb curry is mere icing on a cake.
She ate. And ate. And fell asleep.
I stayed up reading poetry, mostly Tu Fu. Whose oevre is nearly impossible to translate well, so I will not even try. Besides, right now I cannot think as clearly and cogently as that task would require - I'm slightly hung-over from emulating Li Po last night while reading Tu Fu till three in the morning...... drank a bit too much Bourbon.
Both of us had the Sunday we wanted.
I should've had more of that lamb curry, though.
I did not need so much fried chicken - I am the least likely person to either have a period, or actually do anything that drains me as much - heck will indeed have freaked over first.
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THEIR NATURAL HABITAT
There are more dogs in this neighborhood than children. One very rarely sees people walking their children outside when one is, hypothetical...
5 comments:
"please pass the chicken" dan replies as he hand it over "here's the dead chicken".
I, somewhat like you, slept-in yesterday, as well. Having a late salami sandwish we then went to AMC to watch a new film: Cheri. A beautifully-made movie in the rare tradition of true cinematic artistry-- very rich in scenes, costumes, props, accuracy to the art noveau era, camera angles, composition, flawless editing... in short a first-class product that I heartily recommend. The acting, especially by Michelle Pfeiffer, was terrific. If the movie lacked anything, I think it was the story line: O.K., but not up to the rest of the production. In short, a 19-year-old boy falls permanently in love with an older courtesan. I won't spoil the story.
All of our friends would, I think, enjoy this movie very much, but do see it on the big screen to relish the richness of the experience. We wanted the movie to go on another hour.
Oh... I dined on freshly-made Norwegian meatballs and boiled potatoes in a brown gravy. My wife's best friend is visiting from Norway and made this treat for us-- kjott kake, in the mother tongue. Yummm! And a glass of Syrah from Mendocino. I'm going home now for more.
Bob
"here's the dead chicken"
Well of course it was dead - that was an astute halachic observation. In fact he was avering that it wash shechted in the correct fashion, too.
Vi es shtott geshribn, in Sefer Bereishis, psuk 9:3-4 "kol-remesho asher hu-chai lachem yihye l'achla k'yerek esev nasasi lachem es-kol, ach-basar b'nafesho damo lo sochelu" ('every moving thing that is alive to you shall be food, like the green herb that I have given to all, (but) meat that has life, which is the blood of it, you mayn't consume').
So you see, he acknowledged the kasheric suitability of the substance. It just didn't davka suit him.
In light of this posuk, it might better to say "please pass the dead chicken," rather than "please pass the bloody chicken."
Seeing as pervert Patel has not yet provided the promised prawn curry recipe, can you please post your lamb curry recipe instead?
I'm afraid that otherwise I will NEVER get a reasonably edible authentic version.
Thanks!
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