Today I've been eating all the pecans out of the pie we got at Trader Joe's on Sunday. That half the pie remained tells us all it wasn't a particularly good pie, but the pecans coated with a bit of sweet filling were tasty. In a way, it was a bit of successful holiday dieting.
I've been wondering lately about Rhonda Gayle, who was going kick my ass from here to China if I called her "Rhonda Gayle" out loud in front of real people. I freely admit that woman could have kicked my ass solid. Not that I wouldn't have put up a noisy ruckus that would have had the neighbors summoning security - which was what I was trying to avoid.
But I wonder if Gayle and me would still be friends if I hadn't have seen her panties. If Gayle had lived in her own place, instead of a hostel, we would certainly still be friends because Gayle's childhood trauma trumped mine. And I tell you what: mine was bad. It's probably sick and twisted that I look upon it as some sort of hierarchy of bullshit - but what can I say? It's the result of my sick and twisted upbringing - in which I'm happy to say my mother was an innocent bystander.
**Sidenote** 420 Magazine wishes everyone a Hempy Holidays.
Maybe now that there is a snowball's chance in Hell of weed getting decriminalized, I should consider becoming a weed grower in Vermont. Velvet is the picture of a Weed Engineer. I'm so proud. Al Gore would be proud. I know my mother would be proud once she got used to the idea that I was a weed grower and novelist writing about my Texas Gothic Upbringing.
It sounds like a good personal goal. We're already well connected within the Hippie Dippy Quaker, Skinny Dipping, Organic Farming Camp in Vermont. Then last summer, when Velvet was on a trek in the Rockies, he met a young fellow who knows medicinal growers in Vermont. I'd move back to Texas and grow weed if I could, but until it's legal in Texas to grow Marijuana, I'll be dreaming of being a grower in Vermont.
**Side Note** When in Vermont, Menopausal Stoners recommends The Salt Ash Inn.
Let the record show that I have cooked a simple, juicy, delicious bird. The meat rips from the bone with just the slightest tug of my teeth. No sterling silver table settings here. No table settings at all.
Now I'm killing time until the dressing comes out of the oven. It's very simple, too. The cranberries are a bit complex with ginger and nutmeg. This dinner has only the dishes I like best, made exactly the way I like them, served at exactly the time I feel like eating with no one else in mind at all whatsoever. A delightful milestone.