Wednesday, August 16, 2006



Oh, how it would be fine to go camping. The dog days and locust nights are nearly past and now once again a body can lay out under the stars without worry of mosquitoes or toads. Maybe I will pack up the old cooler and bedroll and find some time to myself out in the open. Heh if you can believe it I am even mildly paranoid that Casper Jim Middritch will come drive an axe into my guts even though he has been dead ten years, oh how he used to do that. Camping is a time when we agree with no-one that we are safe, and people who don't care about that have maps to campgrounds.

Wednesday, August 02, 2006


I cooked a chicken this evening, which is new to me

As many of you may have guessed, I am not a cook of much interest to others. I suppose you can tell this through my shy manner and plain meals of pan-top trout or bread. Tonight though I saw a cooking show by a man called Tyler Florence. It was on Food Network Television, a channel you can find on cable. I happened to see it while I was flipping around aimlessly. Something about Tyler Florence caught my eye. He is clean and handsome, and probably mostly hairless. Men like this interest me. Of course this is not to say that the hair on the top of his head was not quite good. It looked quite fine and full, but soft and easily changed.

He cooked a simple baked chicken with someone else, and showed them the basic ideas. I don't know why, but I wanted to cook a chicken after I saw Tyler Florence do it. I bought one at the store, not a frozen one but one ready-to-go. I put it in the baking pan but something did not seem right. I was not dressed like Tyler. I went upstairs and put on a fancy ski sweater, then I felt right. I felt different. I turned on the oven. I poured salt on the chicken, then some inside. I cut a lemon in half, but in my excitement, I forgot it. The chicken went into the oven at room temperature and then in an hour, as Tyler had mentioned, it was cooked. I felt fantastic. I pretended I was showing it to someone. The person in my pretending was Tyler. He touched the cooked chicken in a few places and then announced casually that it was perfectly done. I said well how about that, and he chuckled a good chuckle and mentioned that it was time to dig in. I hit him as hard as I could across the back of the head with a ladle and he had only about five seconds of primal fight response in him before his senses petered out. I guess I got some signals crossed, even in my pretending.

Anyhow, I ate healthily from the bird and when I had had my fill I went out in the van and put the carcass in a black mailbox, being sure to lift the red flag on the side. I hadn't done that in a while, it felt good.

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?