For Tuesday’s Poetics where Mish is hosting, asks us. “Writing from a perspective other than our own is a great challenge. We’ve had some very interesting prompts over the years where we have climbed out of our comfort zones to look through a new lens. That has usually involved looking through the eyes of another person. I’d like to float a little further into the unknown and suggest we take the perspective of a color. (or “colour’ as we spell it in Canada)”
Amber Hues
Cattle in stark relief exposed black silhouettes juxtaposed against my gentle winter hue would you notice if I were blue perhaps shade of summer green but all unnoticed I remain unseen
Wait for the waxing pink moon as amber buds begin to bloom I am not some lifeless tone but fragile glass and precious stone, like the shine in lovers’ eyes I am fading sunset’s golden prize
One of the things I’ve learned about autoimmune diseases (yes plural) is that the dad-blasted things are nothing if not unpredictible. As a lot of you know, Superhubs and I have multiple autoimmune diseases … each. Mostly, I talk (or rant as the case may be) about MS, Diabetes, and Sarcoidosis as those are the “big three” around here. They are like the founding fathers of autoimmune disease they are the Godfathers from which all the minor ailments seem to stem. This week, it’s dyshidrotic eczema. Big words that mean a multi-stage skin affliction that includes liquid filled blisters, hard bumps, cracking skin … yadayadaya. I’ve had it before and it’s a bloody (literally) nuisance, usually flared up by stress. My last go was a couple of years ago when I got it on the tops of my toes. Sore toes, summer, flip flops, life goes on. THIS year (thank you pandemic panic disorder) I’ve got the *&^$%#*& stuff on the BOTTOM of my toes. Here’s the scene.
My Immune System: “Something’s wrong, I can feel tingling in my toes.”
Me: “This is no big deal, a bit of dermatitis, it’ll go away, just stay calm.”
My Immune System: “No, something is definitely wrong, I need to do something.”
Me: “We went to the doctor, it’s OK.”
My Immune System: “No, it’s all wrong! I’m gonna SCRATCH it and see if that helps.”
Me: “Back away from those toes Missy, or so help me, I’ll put gloves on you again.”
My Immune System going into total hysteria: “NO NO NO I have to DO something, I’ve got to destroy this, whatever it is. I’m gonna kill it … with FIRE!”
Me: gritting my teeth and grabbing the prescription steroid cream while my immune system takes a blow torch to my toes, “D***!”
Yeah, that’s pretty much the nightly scene here at Chez Spoons this week.
Needless to say, this is one of those times when a stocked pantry is a lifesaver. Dinner is already decided, all the ingredients are in-house and shortly we’ll be enjoying a quick chicken stirfry featuring canned chicken breast, freeze-dried maitake mushrooms and frozen stir fry vegetables. Voila! The less time spent on my feet right now, the better.
The plan: Melt a stick of organic unsalted butter in a small saucepan with the juice and zest of one lemon and one tablespoon of fresh thyme leaves from the garden. Take the giblets out of the turkey and wash the turkey inside and out. Remove any excess fat and leftover pinfeathers and pat the outside dry. Place the turkey in a large roasting pan. Liberally salt and pepper the inside of the turkey cavity. Stuff the cavity with a bunch of thyme, halved lemon, quartered onion, and cloves of garlic. Brush the outside of the turkey with the butter mixture massaging gently and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Tie the legs together with string and tuck the wing tips under the body of the turkey. Pour a cup of hot spiced wine and relax while turkey cooks.
Execution: Grab turkey giblets bag and yank out of turkey along with a liter of frozen turkey blood & guts. Swear profusely when the giblets bag hits the floor with a splat and breaks open. Gulp hot wine, burning tongue in process swear profusely. Shove gibletless turkey into sink and grab a roll of paper towels and bottle of spray cleaner. Grab a bottle of chilled wine, pour a glass to fortify your constitution and cool your burned tongue. Squirt leftover lime juice from margarita night into turkey butt and toss in a handful of italian seasoning. Glass another pour of wine. Rub a stick of margarine over turkey, sprinkle liberally with every dried spice you have, shove rest of the butter up the turkey butt. Giggle inanely about “turkey butt.” Another wine of glass get. Ponder meat thermometer and whether or not to shove it up turkey butt. Wrink some dine. Put turkey in oven. Boddle empty, grab another. Remember to turn on oven. Roast self with another winey. Turk the bastey, wine the drink. Cook for 4 hours, remove the oven from the turkey. Fick up the purkey off the tloor, invent new curse words. Grab another wottle of bine, pour a glass of turkey. Turk the carvey thing, set the table. Look around in state of confusion when no one arrives at the appointed dinner hour. Pour cup of hot wine, add ice. Ponder the meaning of “daylight savings time.” Look at phone buzzing in hand, text message “want pizza for dinner? Wednesday night special?” Drop phone.
“Thanksgiving dinners take 18 hours to prepare. They are consumed in 12 minutes. Half-times take 12 minutes. This is not a coincidence.” ~ Erma Bombeck
About the photo — looking up through fall leaves at Shugakuin Imperial Villa in Kyoto, Japan
Looking Up
Looking up I see the sky shining bright before my eyes looking down, I seen green grass don’t see the ice, fall on my ass I see treetops filtering the sun don’t even care about my aching bum
Shoe Event Horizon – Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy
For Linda’s What day is it anyway, a little something I got from my sister this morning. 😉
Happy Easter Monday! See, I do know what day it is! I wanted to share with you something I saw recently. A Dr. on TV was saying that during this time of pandemic, lockdowns, slowdowns, and quarantines we should focus on ourselves and our inner peace.
He also said it was a good time to look around us and finish up some of those things we started but have left unfinished. So, I looked through my house to find some things I started and hadn’t finished.
I finished off a botter of Merlot, a bottle of Chardonnay, a bodle of Baileys, a butle of wum, tha wemander of a Valuminium scriptun, and a box of chocletz.
Yu haf no idr how feckin fablus I feel rite now! So I’m sneding this to all who ned inner piss, don’t foget to hash yer wands, has a stafe day avrybobby!
Give Peas a Chance
Til next time ~All I am saying, is ‘buy peas in cans’ ~JPP
Our prompt for Linda’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday was “Choices.” Which got me to thinking about spoonie choices. Now choices are something that every spoonie deals with on a daily basis, I mean really that’s pretty much the definition of a spoonie. Choices are also the bane of many spoonie’s existance. What to cook, what to wear, shower or no? yadayadayada … No relief in sight always choices, everywhere you look. It’s a huge burden for me. Maybe less (or more) for other spoonies. Partly it’s a side effect of brain fog but some days decisions or choices are just impossible for me to manage. Here are a few examples,Continue reading “Spoonie Sunday – Choices”→
The skinny little wretch sat there on the barstool, mocking me.
“Oh the key to my dieting success? I just forget to eat sometimes.” She said it calmly while scarfing down an order of wings with blue cheese and one of those silly froo-froo cocktails with enough sugar to put someone like me into a coma.
I may have rolled my eyes just a little while she polished off the double order of grease and goo. I mean honestly, forget to eat? Really? Lady you gotta be some kind of stupid to forget to eat.
Now I’m in my 60’s, and I’ve forgotten a LOT of things. I’ve forgotten the budget report the day I was supposed to present it to the board of directors. I’ve forgotten my keys, forgotten where I parked my car (once when I was at home). I’ve forgotten my parents anniversary, I’ve forgotten my own anniversary. I’ve forgotten my children’s names, I’ve forgotten my purse, my phone, my bra (yeah let’s not dwell on that one). I’ve forgotten to unplug the iron, I’ve forgotten how the heck to open that stupid child-proof zip lock bag and had to get my grandson to help me. But never, ever, not once, have I forgotten to EAT.
“You don’t look bad honey, you should just get so busy you forget all about eating for awhile.”
I smiled my best Monalisa smile, snatched the last wing off the plate, chugged the last of my light beer and belched. “Sorry girlfriend, just won’t work.”
