CHEEKY child aka Dennis the Menace
Beware! If you are offended by finger gestures don’t enter……..
Stuffed turkey breast roll. Scallops. Vegies. Salad. Pie. Saison beer. Champagne. Dreams for thanksgiving………..
I’m the person who happily stands at the kitchen sink eating from a can of beans or carton of cottage cheese with a spoon and calling that a meal. My culinary skills are basic grub. Crockpot. One skillet dishes. Open the fridge and cut/chop vegetables soon to be past edible and tossing with a big jug of V8 into a pot and making soup. Rarely caring to tax myself beyond the steps of boiling pasta and tossing something with it to make a casserole. LAZY/peasant. That’s me. (although I have a major crush on anthony bourdain, and he’s the reason i finally and impulsively made a 3 week trip to spain/italy to drink wine and eat tappas). btw – i managed to drop 10 pounds despite gluttonly quaffing fine spanish wine and italian gelato. how bad was that? hee.
Last month my sunset magazine arrived in my mailbox and I gave it my usual cursory glance thru prior to taking it, along with assorted books and magazines, to my used book store that offers cash or store credit. It was a thanksgiving issue, duh, but I was uncharacteristically captivated by the rustic meal and tablescape. It grabbed me. Hard. Like the first rough and deep embrace of a lover. Yum. And long sigh……..anthony? anthony bourdain???
So today I find myself in my awkward kitchen making sundried tomato pesto to smear along with bacon and chopped mushroom stems into a pounded turkey breast, rolling and tying with butchers twine into a roll for thanksgiving. Like a pork loin. And of course I immediately thought of the mess and cleanup, as well as wanting a clean fridge. Well! I spied a long forgotten bottle of champagne, remember?, the fridge is not my fave hang out place. I thought why not? And with a whooshing pop that only sounds like what it is, I poured my first glass. Into a beer glass. gasp. And BTW, listening to my created pandora station heavy with bluesy rockabilly throaty female singers and twanging guitar coupled with Leonard Cohen. Sweet.
I managed the pesto, and thankfully, rather than blithely following the pinterest recipe and dumping a full cup of grated parmesan in, tasted it. WOW. Good thing as didn’t realize how the parm would dry up the tongue taste. Finished the pesto, had an obvious oily, basil, sundried toms in oil, parm and salt/pepper mess to clean up. Another glass of champagne please. Poured the pesto into a jar and placed right up front, all importantly, center stage on my fridge shelf.
So now I have the clean up and scrubbing of counters, the floor (i’m messy) and had to clean the fridge, which I managed, plunking my butt on an old, old, old milk stool between the door and shelves. Yuck.
I’m spent. (smile).
Happy Thanksgiving to all who have managed to bear with me on this laborious post. The chef in me (wink) honors the chef in you…..namaste.
Slowly and shuffling with glowing pearls wrapping round parchment skin necks or tattered cuffs mended, then tenderly mended again, all are dressed in their version of Sundays best. Parishioners solemn and dutiful, hands tightly clasping, heads and chins downcast, side glances darting like a lizard from their eyes at the column to their left or to the right. The smell of incense slips into their souls as the brass bowls swing with a whoosh, then clang in this otherwise quiet moment.
The line is long today though not a special day other than Sunday, the Lord’s day, the day before Monday, and the priest chants and sways in the gilded and embroidered frock, all white and starched, covering his emerald green underskirt, black scuffed shoes peeping out, giving forth a secret to be noticed and notated by skillful feet watchers and soul judgers, dressed in their Sunday best.
Tongues sticking out to feel the touch of the host quickly recede and saliva flows as the host melts in the mouth and for that second, that nano moment of time comes relief or tears or guilt or nothing and expresses itself in soundless silence.
The back of the church filled with the unworthy, the sinners, the forbidden from standing in 2 columns up front in Sunday’s best, resolute on their knees, resting on padded softness. The saved and the unsaved, the used to be saved and the never will be saved, you realize in the moment, host or no host, all are the body of Christ.