What an evening. I had a blog almost written and then, wham, bam it all disappeared at the erroneous push of a button. All those thoughts and musings fell from the keyboard like ice cracking on a pond. Could it be Mozilla the Firefox recommended by a teen who in nasty summer aged sneakers assured me it was the way to go? |I mean, who the hell is this Mozilla, sounds like a huge eccentric moth to me, flying into the Boleybeg homestead to eradicate all forms of internet and communication as we know it today. Still, I miss the words that fell into the ether, they meant something to me, they spoke of a day, a part of the life puzzle.
Try to recall the day. Well, there were two news beds for the dogs. Curduroy cushions, if you don't mind, that remind me of the colour of the sand I walked barefoot on last Christmas in Carmel. The neighbourhood dogs ran wild then and owners held a glow that only graces us, briefly, once a year. I envied the walkers, and the dogs. I thought how wonderful it would be to walk that beach everyday with my beloved Missy and Lenny tooing and froing and to watch the great Pacific thunder relentlessly on the shores.
I finished my article on Dunsandle Castle. It took far more than the projected one hour. In fact, it was close to three or four hours before I finished. The more I nitpicked the more I wanted to change it. In the end I sent if off to the newspaper and, in turn, hold my breath. I wanted to add that I did not expect any monetary return but hubbie said I would be crazy to say that. Speaking of hubby he has gone mad cooking. Curry. It is curried this and curried that. Try curried broccoli on an empty stomach. Plenty leftovers guaranteed. Tonight for example he was attacking a complicated Goat Curry with wiri-wiri peppers (believe me, wearisome, I know) and tablespoons of Guyanese garem masala. I don't protest, don't say anything. I realise it is a passing midlife phase. But sons looked perturbed and confused. Dylan is coming to dinner tonight Mom, youngest son announces. Okay, fine, I say, hope he likes Goat Curry. Goat curry? he screams. What the hell Mom, what will he think! Can't we have your roast chicken and pureed sweet potatoes, gravy, carrots. You know Mom, the usual stuff. Look, I say, Dad needs to find his culinary inner self, he is on a journey, we must allow him to be. Curry is his thing. Go for a run, ask Dylan to meet for a swim in the icy cold Atlantic, anything, just build up an appetite and tell Dylan he is more, more than welcome to join us for this, er, primitive experience. I suppose that's what I get for giving hubby the Ultimate Curry Bible for our anniversary. Now, there is no stopping him. A man in his element, a new spice to challenge us, a hint of something else that we must have lacked or think we have.