THE PRE-HOLIDAY HOLIDAY DINNER

Last night the pipe club had dinner together. And just as you might imagine, it was a pleasant assembly of about a dozen middle-aged or elderly gentlemen enjoying each others company, with good things to eat on a rainy evening. They had roast chicken, salad, something spicy (Burmese), plus wine, caffeinated beverages, and generous distilled spirits.
A jolly good time was had by all, oh crikey yes.
After which tobacco was shared.
And pipes were lit.

You might imagine it, but I certainly had to.
I wasn't there, so I'm totally guessing.
I could've gone. I was invited.


But after a day during which I babysat cigar smokers in Marin, socializing wasn't exactly number one on my list, which is why I also did not go out once I returned to San Francisco.

I ate, I read, I smoked.
And went to bed early.

What I would've liked to do was sit down to dinner with a sparkling or grumpy young lady, noshed a bit, and then fallen asleep purring. I would've done the cooking, of course, because I do that well and it's therapeutic. Not an entire table of middle-aged men (I am middle-aged enough, I don't need anymore), and by young lady I mean anyone noticeably younger than myself (see previous note about a surfeit of middle-age), post-college, and of abundant sparkle, or grumpily sparkling, or just grumps.
I get along well with grump.
Grump is life.


This chicken is good. Thank you.
More wine? I don't drink.
Some hotsauce?
No.


I eat by myself most of the time. Almost always. Haven't eaten with other people more than a few times in the last year. Yet I have eaten.
Several hundred times, in fact.

I've long since gotten over the break-up with Savage Kitten, and I am glad that she is happy (with that person with whom I do not wish to associate). She's a much more social eater than I am, despite being incredible shy, reserved, stubborn, anti-social, and Asperger syndromish.

I've also gotten over eating alone. That's my bottle of hot sauce now, my noodly whatever with too much black bean or garlic, my pot of coffee.
This is my dried fish and ginger, as well as my soupy-soup!
And when I want to eat is when I shall eat.


Not looking forward to Thanksgiving, though. Putting up with the company of idiots is traditional, and makes a dry inedible bird taste properly festive. Even stuffing tastes good when some elderly relative gets it gummed up in their dentures, and sneering at cousin Gertrude's green bean casserole is both customary and accepted, I believe. Just not to her face.
Please note that the name of the female relative was chosen at random, it might also be Agatha, Jocasta, or Prudence.
Charming names, really.

I shall not be celebrating Thanksgiving in any way at all.

Late lunch by myself, then to smoke a pipe or two.

A quiet walk, and a cup of milk-tea.

Call it an early evening.

Screw it all.



I think I should make sure there is enough ice cream.
Nothing says sweetness and light like ice cream.




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