For the anniversary of a death, the day is already surprisingly plump with optimism. I can almost imagine my father smiling down on us from his grassy field in heaven where he walks all his dogs (generations of them), smelling faintly of halitosis (I found it most comforting), and with that familiar twinkle in his eye, watching our dumb moves, our crazy thrashing about, trying to pound meaning out of this mortal coil. He is smiling like the Buddha and telling us all to relax and look for the signs in nature. We're all trying too hard. It's there for the scooping up. The birds know it. That's why they have all the fun.
Norwegian cabbage stew (lamb, cabbage, salt, peppercorns, water served with boiled potatoes and masses of chopped parsley) was on the menu last night. Everyone but me turned up his nose at it. Minks opted for Lean Cuisine (ew) and John made a Thai Pork Noodle concoction. But I luxuriated in the velvety overcooked cabbage, the lamb neck falling off the bone, the floury potatoes. I cooked it unwittingly, forgetting it was his favorite meal. But now I know why I cooked it. The parsley is the key - you need loads of it. And of course, a wee dram.
My friend E who's a poet (and I didn't know it) came for tea. I felt like one of those "ladies" in Little Britain, with cucumber sandwiches, egg sandwiches, earl grey and jaffa cakes, sitting outside in the late afternoon sun - "oh doo come for teaaa" - and discovering that everyone that starts a book over the age of 40 thinks it has to be Gravity's Rainbow, and the sooner you can disavow yourself of that dumb notion, the better. E is right and E is very wise and today, armed with my new African Violet that I vow will not die, at least till I'm done, I march bravely into the fray, with a new desire to not let the bastards get me done. I will finish this thing if it kills me (now doesn't that make you want to break into a chorus of "Rule Britannia"?).
I miss you DEW.
