(John Prine reference)
Okay, I've talked about food and eating for long enough, so this is my last post about the issue until the next time I feel like it.
The thing is, I am an analytical sort of person with a dash or two of creativity thrown into the mix (and who knows HOW my wife has put up with me over the years), so I tend to analyze problems, tend to try to solve them through reason, but then, alas, to try to explain the problems and the solutions creatively to those within listening distance.
Translated, that means that for some five years now I have been discussing my eating experiences with my wife (and any other family within the aforementioned listening distance) and I do believe that she is finally about over it.
(Neil Young reference)
It took the lady doing my CT scan two tries to get the needle in, the one that would inject the iodine dye that would make me feel that I needed to urinate (or, as she put it "feel warm inside"). That is okay. As with most, she had a hard time on the right, opted for the left, and when I showed her the scarring from where they got some new tongue for me, she opted to go back to the right.
She found one. And in I went.
Eight minutes only, as I have mentioned, I think. No head/neck scan, which means we are beyond five years and I am all-clear (allegedly) in that department. Just a chest scan. Eight minutes. Not bad.
(Jimmy Buffett reference)
My head hurts.
My arm hurts.
Both of my hands hurt.
Seems I took a little unintended spill in the hardest room in the house, the white room, I call it, where the floors are all white tile (and slippery) and where I put many of my plants during the winter.
It is the room from which I logn to remove my wife's crap (a love seat and a desk, principally), replace all of that with a simple park bench (which some of you have suggested puts my wife in the right), and just live with my plants and the sun and the fire from time to time (it has a fireplace...I did not intend to set fire to the desk or the love seat).
(Steely Dan reference)
CT scan in about four hours. Was contemplating sleeping or riding it out and finally realized that sleep was not going to be an option.
Someone asked if I was nervous about the scan, and I said, No, I am nervous about the results.
But, the thing is, and I mean this, I am more concerned about another mis-diagnosis than I am about a cancer diagnosis. Strange, eh? But it's true.
I have been remiss in my appointments. I have missed some because of parking, others because of waiting, others because I would rather sleep, and all of them, I think, because I was thinking, "What's the point?"
Ultimately, everyone else went to bed just as I was getting going, as you might understand, sad as it is to relate. I was really looking forward to eating with my family and friends (and the occasional monkey, I suppose), and was wondering if my foray into the culinary world, the whole oysters rockefeller thing, was really worth it.
After all, I had missed dinner completely, and was now up in the wee hours while they slept and prepared, mother and daugher anyway (my wife and daughter, I should say) for so-called Black Friday.
I can tell you now that I got comments about by oysters rockefeller. My mother in law, as she was leaving (finally) said they were soupy but that I should keep trying. My son said they were not really oysters rockefeller because they were not in a shell (I had been making that argument myself for days, but who listens to me?).
(The Monkees reference)
If you have been following along, you know that I have not even gotten to my dish yet.
I am eating pumpkin pie (that is good for you, right? I mean, pumpkin? C'mon, gotta be good for you!), cheesecake (also good for you, right? I mean, cheese? Give me a break!), and um, some sort of gooey thing that came from outside of the house if you know what I mean and I think you do, but which, by the way, tastes awesome.
Those are my entrees when I finally awaken. I am not in the mood to cook leftovers (except for pies) and certainly not in the mood, yet, to rummage through storage containers that appear to have been placed in my fridges by the container obsessive from hell. Which is to say, again, there was a lot of food. And my wife likes her containers.
(David Bowie reference)
My brother and his wife didn't make it up for Thanksgiving, due to an injury in the family (their cat was attacked by a werewolf or something in the night, surgery was required, and they were also both, at the same time, trying to quit smoking, not the werewolf or the cat (although that might explain the disposition of either or both), but my brother and his wife, and that was probably a scarier proposition). We will hook up soon, I am sure, but it was rather sad not having them around. My little brother is my best friend, after all.
And, of course, it meant that Kim was not coming with her special cheesecake.
(Blue Oyster Cult reference)
Coming into this Thanksgiving, I tasked myself with making oysters rockefeller. Don't ask me why. I do not believe I've eaten them since I was a bus boy at the Officer's Club at NAS Norfolk WAAAY back in the day. They were, of course, free.
But, we live at the beach and I felt like we needed to add a little ocean spice to the traditional turkey do, and somehow (actually, quite directly, as my wife said: Okay, you do it, but not on Thursday...I do not want you in my kitchen on Thursday.") I ended up with the task.
I watch lots of food shows these days. I have mentioned that they are like porn to me now. Not that porn is good for you :). (I will plead the fifth on that one.) So I have had a general (even keen?) interest in food preparation for some time now. But I am not a sophisticate, I am not a culinary expert by any stretch, I am not a gourmand. I am a grinder who can barely get through the making of an egg without screwing it up (although I do not let others make my eggs for me, as they screw them up even worse :)).
(Michael McCloud reference)
Tonight I rather insisted that my son and I go out together for dinner. We do not get out enough and sometimes I think it is because he thinks I am an odd object (the speech thing and all, to say nothing of my behavior), and other times I think it is because he thinks I'm weird.
Did I just repeat myself?
Anyway, he tends to disassociate himself from me whe it is just the two of us. Oh, one more reason: he can't pay. If you suspect that guilt, however, is in play, you are wrong.
But there is a third thing. I'm forgetting it at the moment, but there IS a third thing.
(Lefty Frizell reference)
Oh, the things I dream of once I get started!
My wife is headed to Atlantic City this morning (not long from now, and, no, I don't know why I'm awake), with a bunch of old ladies, and when I think about it, and I have to think about it, I can say to myself, okay, they are mostly 20 years older than her, not that that should matter (of course), but I am just checking our mortality dipstick, I suppose.
She is going off with the old hens, all loveable old hens who feed me well and get no complaints from me, I assure you, to Atlantic City to play the slots and the wheel, black jack and five card whatever, if they dare, and, mostly, I assume, to eat and drink to their hearts' content.