I know, lots of cat pictures. Some of you will disagree, but I do not think I am a crazy cat lady. I know better than to have more than two. And although I have some cat artificats, I try to eschew anything too cute. Who knows? Perhaps this is just another self-image issue about which I am delusional.
Meanwhile, still not feeling well, worst day in a couple, although I am giantly grooving to the dulcet sounds of Chief Stephen Osita Osadebe and his Nigerian Soundmakers. (Here's a link if you want to download and hear for yourself.)
My cats are sitting around me looking expectantly but I have no idea at what. Unless they are focussed on getting more Greenies Treats. Cooder has a significant addiction problem here. It is a bit hard to deny her because she is old and cute and her Greenies days are numbered. Maybe they think it is bedtime. I just figure I won't sleep even if I head in that direction, but perhaps I can do some more reading.
Somehow, in my stupor, I ended up making biscuits from scratch, two pizzas, and baked another batch of those sour cream-lime cookies. And then made too much orange-toasted coconut frosting so that there is quite a bit left over. I managed to only eat two.
Sorry I am nattering and thank you for bearing with me. I am somewhat absent-minded.
The next Tom Bissell essay is about the making of a film in his hometown. The article muses on the divide between the Movie People and the townsfolk, as well as small town versus big city life. I feel I escaped a kind of small town, although it was really more of mindless LA suburban sprawl.
In a small town, success is the simplest arithmetic there is. To achieve it, you leave—then subsequently bore your new big-city friends with accounts of your narrow escape. Indeed, when I was younger, I felt certain that what kept small-town people in their small towns was some tragic deficiency.
|Olive oil, lemon thyme, black pepper, roasted squash, havarti, and parmesan pizza.|