Fluid Pudding

This morning I met my very favorite Alison for brunch, and that resulted in me sitting behind a bowl of food that looks like this:

Sweet potatoes and feta cheese and apples and cranberries and candied pecans and wild rice and maple vinaigrette dressing. Perfect.

After brunch I went home and baked a pumpkin pie with my mom, and I think I left it in the oven too long because now it looks like this:

Feeling stressed about the pie, I walked upstairs and decided to take a nap with Harper’s cat who looks like this:

And here we are again. I’m feeling sort of Stormy Weather, but sitting on the couch next to a very tall twinkling tree with balls seems to be helping. It looks like this:

Finally, a few days ago I was wearing my overalls and when I checked myself out in the mirror I realized that they are no longer the correct size. I went online, stacked a bunch of coupons on top of a sale, and got a $98 pair of overalls for $37.50. They arrived today and I’m not 100% sold on them but I’m also not trying to impress anyone (and I’m super lazy when it comes to returning things), so they’re staying. They look like this:

(I removed the background because you don’t need to see the litter box, but now I can’t stop looking at my weird squared off arm and I guess that’s what I would look like as an amputee.)

I took this photo at 6:49 this morning. You probably can’t hear it by looking at your screen, but as I was standing outside staring upward at 6:49, the sky whispered, “Go put on a corduroy jacket. Grab a hot coffee and a notebook. Drive to the river. Sit on a bench. Listen to Broadcast. Just stare at the river and soak it in. Then close your eyes. Inhale. Exhale. Get up. Go buy a can of spray paint. Add a scrotum to a stop sign. Steal some gin. Punch a cop. Happiness is its own justification!”

I accomplished exactly half of the sky’s suggestions before it was time to head off to the dentist.

Tomorrow is another day. It always is.

When I’m starting to get low on gas, I like to see if I can match the speed of my car to the number of miles I supposedly have left in my tank. It’s a tiny joy that I get to experience every few weeks and all it really requires is a slight adjustment of ankle angle for every mile that remains.

I recently read Table for Two, which is a gathering of short stories by Amor Towles. Towles is a favorite of mine, and if you haven’t read A Gentleman in Moscow, you need to stop what you’re doing and get started.

You’re going to love it.

Back to Table for Two. One of the stories features a character who ruminates on Thanksgiving, and although I rarely use the word delightful, it’s Delightful. And timely! Here is an excerpt.

The intrinsic challenge of roasting a turkey has led to all manner of culinary abominations. Cooking the bird upside down, a preparation in which the skin becomes a pale, soggy mess. Spatchcocking, in which the bird is drawn and quartered like a heretic. Deep frying! (Heaven help us.) The limitations of choosing a twenty-pound turkey as the centerpiece of the Thanksgiving meal have only been compounded by the inexplicable tradition of having every member of the family contribute a dish. Relatives who should never be allowed to set foot in a kitchen are suddenly walking through your door with some sort of vegetable casserole in which the “secret ingredient” is mayonnaise. And when cousin Betsy arrives with such a mishap in hand, one can take no comfort from thoughts of the future, for once a single person politely compliments the dish, its presence at Thanksgiving will be deemed sacrosanct. Then not even the death of cousin Betsy can save you from it, because as soon as she’s in the grave, her daughter will proudly pick up the baton.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the house where I grew up and how close we lived to the train tracks. I’ve lived out of the house longer than I lived in the house, but I still occasionally wake up with a start in the middle of the night with my first thought being, “It’s just the train.” (But really, it’s just the dog or just the cat or just the guinea pig or just the owl.)

This is the house where I grew up.

 

It’s just the train.

At the beginning of every Saturday morning yoga practice, our instructor will ask if we have any requests for poses or if we have specific areas of the body that are in need of attention. (Someone always yells, “Core!” and then several people I’ll never understand start nodding their heads.)

This morning, one of the regulars requested Lizard into Hanumanasana. I’m always down for a lizard, so I figured Hanumanasana couldn’t be all that bad. (Remind me to brush up on my Sanskrit.)

Fifteen minutes later, it was revealed that Hanumanasana = Splits.

I won’t share the details (although those details contain words like Scootch and Washcloth!). Just know that I absolutely SUCKED at Hanumanasana. BUT, because yoga is a journey and ‘Hanumanasana’ translates to Hindu Monkey God Pose, I feel like I need to pound it out over the next few months just so I can say, “I can rock the Hindu Monkey God.”

I’ll keep you updated. Obviously.

My dad was born on Sunday, November 22, 1942, which means today he is 29,952 days old.

The #1 song when he was born was “I Had the Craziest Dream” by Harry James & His Orchestra.

The most popular movie at that time was Cat People.

(The most popular book was a historical novel about the Crucifixion of Jesus, but let’s not go down that road. NOT TODAY.)

Early this morning I hopped into the car and drove to Mr. Meowski’s. (The opening of the bakery was the result of cosmic poetry, and I think you might enjoy the story.)

Mr. Meowski’s is known for their sourdough, and if you get there early enough a batch will still be baking. And if you’re lucky, the owner will remove a loaf from the oven, toss it into a brown paper bag, and hand it to you steaming hot. It’s beautiful, it’s delicious, and it’s exactly what you get for a guy who’s been around for 29,952 days—especially if he’s one of the good ones.

I went to see my doctor yesterday and all was well, so I decided to make all not so well by getting both my flu shot (left arm!) and my Covid vaccine (right arm!) and today I’m feeling a little off, which means the microchip that was implanted during last year’s inoculation was programmed to detect how I voted a few weeks back, and now I’m getting a big dose of DNA-altering “That’ll Show Her!” Argh! Foiled again!

Because I’m not feeling so great, today’s post will be devoted to two of my very favorite videos from Youtube.

I first saw The Little Girl Giant 18 years ago and I love everything about it—the dedication of the people operating the puppet, the music, the loneliness, the wonder… I think it’s really beautiful. (The way the puppet looks at the girl on her arm chokes me up every single time.)

But also: TECHNOVIKING!

Wait. One more. Meredith shared the following with me last week, and it makes me so happy because it is of my time and there’s time enough at last.

I knit some stuff during my break from the website. Let’s take a look!

It’s linen, it’s super comfortable, and I wore it nearly every day over the summer because it hangs low.
Pattern: Ceira by Amy Christoffers

It’s itchy and it’s not the best fit, but I love the colors.
Pattern: Elton by Joji Locatelli

It’s cotton, I made it for the Ani DiFranco show, and then I never wore it again. I’m not sure why.
Pattern: Deschain by Leila Raabe

I purposefully made the sleeves a little longer than they needed to be, and I adore everything about this sweater.
Pattern: Petra by Olive Knits

I knit a pig around a ball and mailed it to a friend.
Pattern: Oink by Susan B. Anderson

I knit a sock. Just one. I’ll get around to its partner eventually.
Pattern: Cherven Socks by Alena Malevitch

This is my current project. It will eventually look like this.
Pattern: Tivoli Shawl by Mary Pranica

Today I knit for a few minutes during my lunch break as I watched the first episode of a documentary about Charles Manson. “If you’re going to do something, do it well. And leave something witchy.” Will do, Charles Manson. Will do, you wacky psychopath.