Wednesday. November 21, 2001

visions of the past, indeed
I've completely lost track of my little white head thingie

"The wastepaper basket is the writer's best friend."

Isaac B. Singer

I have a break this morning. I'm not going to cook anything until this afternoon. Or maybe even tonight. Yeah, tonight. The house is mostly ready. I only have to buy ice. I wake up feeling pretty good. I didn't take Dimetapp last night. I may need it again but I wake up feeling great. I have a couple of things I want to organize before tomorrow morning, but I don't need to panic until then. Mom calls before nine and wonders what we are going to eat tonight. A couple of aunts and uncles will arrive in town tonight. We'll go out, I assert.

Before I do anything useful, I read some. It's such a pleasure reading. Especially if you have something other than current newspapers.

I move a few things around in the house, read, work the crossword puzzles. (Yes! On Wednesday I worked the NY Times puzzle.) I watch most of Slacker on cable. I'm a slacker. Yeah. Well, tonight and tomorrow I'll be busy cooking, arranging, setting tables, cleaning, making sure everyone is happy. A little quiet time before the onslaught is surely OK.

FFP and I lunch on spinach, leftover cheese and smoked turkey salad.

I feel good. I take a stroll around my backyard. I drink tons of good Capresso coffee. I ponder life.

Eleven of my relatives descend and we decide that take-out from Chili's is best. I take orders, FFP calls it in and he and Dad pick it up. People wander off to four different rooms to eat their stuff. Everyone seems happy.

When the relatives leave at half past eight, I go to the convenience store and get ice and ice down some drinks. I start making the four things that I'm contributing to the meal: lemon potatoes, green beans, spaghetti squash casserole and deviled eggs. Lots of chopping, boiling, microwaving, sauteeing, mixing and clean-up later, it is midnight. The vegies are ready to heat up for the meal. I'm sweaty, tired and my feet hurt. I don't know how real cooks do it. It is sort of fun, actually, but maybe not with the pressure on. Oh, well. The good news is: even if they hate everything I made, there will be lots of other contributions to choose from.

JUST TYPING
Work.
Puffs itself up.
And expands.
To fill up the time.