So. We finished a big breakfast this morning, and our holiday weekend plans went into full swing. I say “into full swing” rather than “into motion” because, quite simply, it is a far more descriptive describer to say that since our motions are more back-and-forth than linear. I always attempt to accurately scribe events here to the bloggie. And, again, I say “try” rather than simply say, “I always scribe accurately.”
Nothing in my life happens with any linear motion, everything swings back-and-forth with the ebbs and flows of the many women in my life. I have so many examples of how their mood swings send me twisting like a bed sheet in a tornado, I don’t even know which to tell you.
These distinctions are gathered to the forefront of my ADHD-addled brain due to events that occurred starting with said big breakfast. The breakfast was big in several ways– the assembled breakfasters, both quantity and quality, the food from the perspective of both variety and quantity, and the events taking place at the gathering.
Allow me to provide clarity to give you a foundation for understanding. First, the attendees included: Gram, P-cubed, Mother, Aunt Hilda and her shrunken-head-in-mahogany-box– Woodrow, Squirt and Dixie, Honor the newly-named cat (formerly known as Eighty-three), Streaker Jones, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, SAC Ellen, Gnat (my trusty assistant), Gnat’s beau (an associate of the SACster), Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry, and a one-pound live blue gill in a bucket of lake water.
The blue gill represents the strongest of his breed, the one-in-thirty we caught on yesterday’s fishing trip to survive the razor-sharp claws of my soon-to-not-be my cat. Aunt Hilda has taken it upon herself to blow air through a long straw into the bottom of the bucket to keep the water oxygenated, and she sucked instead of blew just the one time.
I think once would be enough for most anyone to get that lesson firmly fixed in their gray matter.
Streaker Jones brought us another gallon of the prized maple syrup he imports from this place that sits smack-dab on the US and Canadian border, so I made pecan waffles. Waffles are one of the near-perfect foods. You can cook almost anything into them, and the little grill pockets make perfect-sized cups to hold butter, syrup or whipped cream, and evenly distribute those condiments to each tasty bite.
I also cooked some bacon that I smoked with a glaze of the last maple syrup Streaker Jones brought, grilled flank steak ala Mexicana, eight dozen fried eggs, three loaves of seven grain toast (for the pig), one spelt muffin for Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, hash browns crisped in butter, sliced Merced tomatoes from the garden, coffee, Bloody Marys and, of course, Carta Blanca beer. And spicy homemade salsa.
We sat at the big bar top in my kitchen, the kitchen itself a separate wing we added maybe a dozen years ago. It’s 500 square feet features a commercial kitchen with walk-in friggie and freezer, huge pantry and attached cellar, big floor-to-ceiling window walls, with doors looking and leading out to the courtyard, and this bar that seats twenty comfortably.
What with the pig and ostrich seated, capacity is reduced to fourteen, so I had the cat sitting in my lap. I sat Gram at one end of the bar top and Rush and Ricky at the other, and I put Streaker Jones between them on one side and I sat across from him. That way we could intercede the most dangerous of the attacks mounted by Gram on my gay and closeted pets. Since I served grilled flank steaks, each diner had a sharp, serrated knife.
I’m a real stickler with knives. I think knives are to be respected, honored even. Knives should be kept honed to their sharpest and stored in cases or wooden blocks whenever not in use. And NEVER, EVER put a knife in the FUCKING DISHWASHER!
My opinions re: knives might be called an obsession. OK, my opinions on knives have been called an obsession, and also caused one of my divorces. Another story. Maybe my knife opinions are obsessions.
OK, fuck it. I’m obsessed with knives and I have very strong opinions thereto. Therefore, maybe. Shit, thereof?
Anyway, with a sharp knife within Gram’s reach, I felt it was prudent to keep sentries between her and my gay pig and ostrich. I’ve seen Gram butcher a hog.
Originally, my personal plans for the day included: a quick fishing trip with Squirt and Honor, a long and intimate relationship with icy-cold bottles of Carta Blanca beer, a relaxing afternoon at the BBQ pit cooking the cabrito that is our traditional Memorial Day weekend meal, and some serious sexing to cap off the day. Cabrito is goat, and I cook mine more like a roasted suckling pig than one of those Hawaiian steamed jobbies. I love crunchy food.
In order to get goat meat crunchy, I wrap it in caul fat. I love caul fat, you know, that fatty membrane that wraps animals’ stomaches. I learned to use it from a Sicilian woman years ago, and have seen it often on cooking shows. Like The Iron Chef. I love the Iron Chef. It reminds me of everyday cooking around here.
You can’t cook a goat in his own skin or else your finished product tastes like burned homeless mens’ sneakers, and I’m digressing the shit out of all of us. Not that the story about my having burned a box of sneakers I was taking to the homeless shelter isn’t interesting. It’s inappropriate for this posting.
What I’m attempting to say is that my day has already gone to shit. Gram made it clear that Rush and Rick were to stay at my side all day or else we’d have some specialty meats for our holiday feastings. So I gathered up the mini dog, kitty, 360-pound ostrich, 500-pound pig, a bucket and pitch fork, and off we went to dig worms for fishing.
Streaker Jones said, “I’mma go too. Be inner-estin’”
Dixie, SAC Ellen and Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson agreed, so they gathered some lawn chairs and followed us out to the garden for the worm gathering. When I chose the spot for digging, the group of observers set their chairs at the end of the two long rows of tomatoes. I started digging with my pitch fork, turning over the rich soil and exposing the worms to be gathered by Squirt and Honor.
Watching me expose the damp earth must have sparked some primal instinct from deep inside Rush Limbaugh’s hog brain. He snorted a half-dozen times and started rooting up everything in sight. I had a hundred tomato plants laying on their sides before I could stop him. I kept whacking his ass with the back of the fork, to no avail. Only when I confronted him with the business end did he stop.
Now I’m all sweaty and panting from chasing the hog and I can’t find the ostrich. I asked the observers, “Where’s Rick Perry?” and all I got was four fingers and a retriever’s nose pointing towards the cantaloupe patch.
The first near-100-degree days has brought the grasshoppers to the garden. Did you know that grasshoppers are an ostrich’s favorite food? Me either until this morning’s calamity recap and evaluation. Under intense questioning, Rick Perry admitted that when he sees a grasshopper, all fifty of his brain cells focus on nothing but the grasshopper.
Must be the same phenomena as suffered by his namesake, Texas governor Little Prick Perry, upon looking at a money man for a conservative political PAC.
So I’m goading my pet hog with the pitchfork, Squirt is chasing the ostrich as he slams through the garden snapping at grasshoppers, and the group of seated observers are laughing their asses off. I’m yelling and cussing my ass off when the reverie is interrupted by a, “BOOM!” Then a five-second pause and, “BOOM!” again.
Ever been pelted with rock salt that was hand-loaded into twelve-gage shotgun shells by a crazy old woman?
I’m just glad that I had a few rows of short corn plants between me and the trigger-happy old woman when she sparked-off the loads. The ostrich was caught terrorizing swimmers over on Lake Travis. The water is so low from the drought that Rick Perry has access to much of the lake, and the silly ostrich loves to primp and posture for any gathering.
Another shared trait with the governor.
Anyway, I’m just now getting the fishing trip restarted and Gnat has reset my schedule for me. The worst part of the new timings for today’s events is that dinner is moved back an hour, which delays the start of my planned sexing. I just hope that I can keep from fucking something up so bad the sexing gets canceled again.