I was born sixty years ago today. So this is a good day to blog. I awoke this morning to the sound of my alarm, a blatting ring. I popped out of bed and put the kettle on for coffee with lots of sugar and cream, followed by oatmeal. I read Psalm 140 en français. The psalms are obtuse to me in English. How much more so in French? "They sharpen the tongue like the serpent..." The evil men are ever out to get us... Only the Lord can preserve us from their designs...
It was dark in the early morning. The dawn was masked in fog. My wife sang me happy birthday, replacing my name with the word 'honey.' Then she packed her bag. She said she would be back by Weds. She's going to I-Falls to help the court system get their new computer program up and running.
I drove through the fog to Roseau to meet with my colleagues at the Guest House for breakfast. By the time I got to Greenbush, 20 odd miles to the west, the fog had lifted. After all, it was my birthday.
It was a quiet day at the nursing home. No major crises, just the little crises that litter every life.
The weather was soft. I drove home and when I got there I made clam chowder. To make chowder in the midland you need a bottle of clam juice. How many gallons of clam juice have I swilled and now I pay big bucks for a tiny cocktail's worth. But it's worth it. A most savory liquor. Boil small potatoes and onion in it, add pathetic minced clams, and heavy whipping cream, plus salt, freshly ground pepper, butter, flour [put the flour in a bowl, add some of the chowder, stir vigorously, and return to the main chowder], let sit overnight in the reefer.
What shall I eat this night. How about some thin spahetti. Set it aside when cooked and pour olive oil in the hot pot, with minced garlic, crushed red pepper, and kosher salt. Re-introduce the pasta and you have the most delicious dish you will ever taste.