I’m in the process of getting back into the groove. I was in Vegas for a conference last week and I’m now off to another conference in Syracuse tomorrow. The only thing that seems to be getting me through the daylight hours is caffeine – a lot of caffeine.
Lucky for me, I just received a “new” coffee maker. Actually, it’s an ancient relic. A glass percolator that’s 6-cup designation is more like only 2 1/2 cups. It is beautiful, all gold and black and grandma-looking. I think that it was an unopened wedding gift from the 1960’s that somehow found its way to me. I am in love with my percolator, though I’ll admit that there have been a few issues along the way. Brewing a morning cup of joe in a percolator is more of an art than a mindless act of flipping a switch.
For example, if you let the water come to a full boil then you get a mess and a cup full of grounds. Actually, no matter what I do there is a small silt layer at the bottom of the pot every morning. I think that I need to purchase a larger ground coffee than the black-dirt richness that I bought for my other love – my silver one-cup espresso maker.
But regardless, I do not care. Good, bad or silty – my ancient percolator makes me think of breakfasts of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and grapefruit served in pretty breakfast nooks full of sunshine…even when all I have time for is a rushed cup of coffee in my car on the way to work.
I wonder if my listening habits are different than other people’s? I wonder if my eclectic mix of music, a mix that weaves in and out of genres and up and down rhythmic patterns is out of the ordinary? I wonder this because in the past few weeks I’ve been sampling bits and pieces throughout my workday all to create the constant background soundtrack of my life that is Pandora.
Chris Thile helps me type. Seasick Steve helps me read. Robbie Williams helps me clean. Lou Reed helps me escape. All of those are last week’s favorite artists. I’ve also run the gambit from Common to Blake Shelton to Tom Jones in a matter of four hours. God, I love Tom Jones and I’m not afraid to admit it. Who can’t help but move to “Sexbomb” or “What’s new pussy cat?” Tom Jones becomes a problem though because I bop around in my chair and look like I’m having a bit of a fit.
Am I alone in wondering about people who only listen to one genre? Or people who rule out entire segments of the music industry? I mean, I don’t really like SlipKnot but I’ll dip my toe in the water every once in a while just because. I like country but I can’t listen to it 24/7 nor can I keep my Foo Fighters on an endless loop. The variety I am able to sample is like an endlessly delicious buffet for my soul.
Music just makes me happy; it gives me energy, it gives me peace. Music helps me get through my day and the tasks on hand. Music fuels my daydreams and desires, my goals and wishes.
Who are your favorite performers? Or, who are your favorites right?
Yup, it’s true. Now, I’ve written about the small, occasional realizations that my youth is slowly slipping away. There was this lovely monologue on the slowest escape ever. And other random thoughts about getting older. This morning though it really, really hit me when I couldn’t focus on the small print of a paper I’d printed up.
Am I going to turn into one of those people who make comments about “not everyone can read that small” or makes up excuses why the design is wrong and fail to admit that their eyes are just failing them?
I’m going to have to buy reading glasses. Reading glasses! Well, they better be stylish that’s all I’ve got to say about it.
This really sucks.
If you were to ask me, my weekends are shamefully lazy. I sit around and watch a movie or two. I read a book. I paint. I write. Sure I do practical weekend things like do the laundry, go grocery shopping and/or meet a friend or two. But to be completely honest I end up feeling like a perfectly contented sloth most of the time.
But, at the same time, I am surprisingly busy. I say this because today I realized that in all these lazy hours I am amazingly productive. I may remember hours on the couch or in a wicker rocker, but the point of fact I’m up and about more than stationary.
In the last 24 hours I have:
- Made a yummy batch of Valencian empanadas
- Made carrot-blueberry buttermilk pancakes
- A pot of fresh tomato sauce is currently bubbling on the stove
- And a bowl of bread dough is rising on the counter
All this culinary activity is ongoing. Dinner will be chicken parm made with the sauce and accompanied by a crusty slice of freshly baked bread.
My freezer is literally bursting from my lazy day efforts. I have six sandwich bags with empanadas, eight containers with pancakes all neatly portioned out for future use. I’m honestly going to have to figure out how to fit some of the bread in as well.
Recipes will follow throughout the week with stories, but right now I’m going to curl up with my current read and in exactly twenty minutes I’ll go punch down the dough. How can so much work be so relaxing? And it is relaxing.
I think that maybe I cook when I’m happy or in turmoil and that maybe, just maybe, I’m a little of both right now. I had a very intriguing date/interview with Mr. B the other night. I say interview because he had a list of questions that have been clearly on his mind…He’s been pretty quiet since. I think it’s because he needs some time to process the responses to his questions. In the mean time I’m cooking.
Filed under Day to day, Food
I love my apartment and the little town I now call home. I am deeply satisfied that my friends are so close and we get the chance to chit-chat and laugh so often.
I am enamoured by the local hardware store that gave me six nails for free (I was hanging paintings) because, as the very nice man who helped me said, “Seriously? It’ll cost me more to ring them up than what I’d change.”
I am enchanted by the delicious and decadent concoctions the general store around the corner creates. I mean, Big Mac Pizza? Yum.
What I am not so thrilled with is the low, off-key singing of my neighbor. He (or she – it’s up for debate) sings a nightly concert, without fail, around 8:30 pm. The duration is unpredictable – the constancy is not. Nothing can completely drown out the muffled whale call. Music, movies – all fail.
Is this person chanting? Are they a professional musician? In the shower? Is it some sort of mating call? I’d honestly rather not know the answer.
The strangest part in this mystery is that I hear nothing else from the neighbors. No talking, no loud tv, nothing but the discordant tones of the whale.