Running late

One of those days when I seem to be trying to catch up with myself. Watched  a small cat trying to catch baby birds near the stoep (porch) while waking up and blinking like a weary owl. Put down my cup of coffee and went out to shoo the cat away. That lovely tail-waving walk of hauteur and offended dignity in cats. Ungrateful baby sparrows squeaking at me.

 

Then a small thin council worker with a goofy smile sauntered around my garden scattering bags of live sterile fruit flies onto the shrubs and trees. This is some agricultural experiment  concocted by the lunatic town council. No point in yelling at the messenger. Life in Africa is stranger than fiction.

 

Stayed in bed reading the marvellous Junot Diaz on performative masculinity, so forgot to water the garden and turn on the sprinkler. Then stayed in the bath until my fingers wrinkled like prunes, making up sub-plots for the great unwritten Nanowrimo novel.

 

Decided to make a butterflied tandoori chicken for supper, so ground up spices using the pestle and mortar. Realised as I was squeezing halved lemons onto the spatchcocked chicken that I may not have enough yoghurt and will have to think about something involving coconut milk. Did a Keralan paradigm shift to include blanched almonds and green cardamoms. Had a disconcerting mental image of my guest saying, ‘But you know I don’t eat almonds.’ Perhaps I should disinvite the guest and ask somebody else. A good cook is selfish to the core.

 

I didn’t get enough sleep last night and I have that old harried and flustered the-day-getting-away-from-me feeling.

The solution might be to drink.

Just joking. The solution might be to curl up on the sofa and read more Junot Diaz and eat a bowlful of fresh macadamia nuts from Limpopo. Have a little nap and start the day over again.

 

The thing about staying sober for today, or any day, is that it makes all kinds of other things possible. Getting drunk narrows the options down to staying drunk and wrecking tomorrow. Which is what appeals to me so much about staying sober and reinventing my chicken with crushed lemon grass from the back garden. Nothing wakes up the taste buds like lemon grass in coconut milk.

 

And if my mind has been sufficiently improved by Junot Diaz I might even get back to writing fiction. Or making dessert with poached figs and honey.

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