…in a city famous for its hills, that’s more demanding and entertaining than it sounds.
Category: Uncategorized
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by scrolling social feeds.
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Daily writing promptWhich food, when you eat it, instantly transports you to childhood?
…homemade Yorkshire pudding. My grandmother was born in Portsmouth England and I assume her mother taught her how to make it. At Sunday meals in my grandparents’ house on Bayou Desierd, her Yorkshire pudding would be carried out to the table, soft, bulging and trembling in its dish, followed by a platter bloody with rare, tender strips of roast beef. Long before Pink Floyd’s The Wall. my grandmother would say archly to the children at the table, “You’ve got to eat your pudding first! Then you can have your meat.”
Which was no chore. Her pudding was delectable and deadly. Along with steak, gumbo, bourbon and fried catfish, it likely contributed to my grandfather’s heart problems.
It also set me up for bitter disappointment when I traveled to England in my twenties, ordered Yorkshire Pudding, and was brought a chewy, muffin-shaped side dish plainly taken out of a freezer package.
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He was German citizen, a mid-level civil servant, and man of conscience who recorded his opposition to the Nazi regime in a secret diary he began in 1939. As a lonely voice of German opposition who could only record it in secret, he was uncompromising in his views on German responsibility.
He wrote in 1945, “If now, after the collapse, should any of these lackeys of Adolf Hitler have the insolence to claim they were merely harmless onlookers, let them feel the scourge of avenging mankind.” -
…pink, and had wire rimmed glasses, and he was the smartest, funniest kid in the class. Now he’s a college professor.
Something inside me still sighs when he bobs up on Facebook.
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Everyone I know who has been says it’s wonderful.
My impressions of the country are based partly on what I read in Hemingway, partly on an old boyfriend’s story about a weird, midnight orange-fight he got into while hitch=hiking across the country in the ’70s, partly on the fantasy TV series El ministerio del tiempo, and partly on my favorite Spanish tapas place.
And there’s also Saturday Night Live‘s 70-era weekly reassurance, “Francisco Franco is still dead.”
The Generalissimo is still dead and he’s not coming back. The people seem nice. They have a good sense of humor and history. They do great things with potatoes and spicy red sauce. I want to go.
I’ll ignore the bullfights.
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Who understands me better? Who’s more sympathetic when I’m sad? Who do I like seeing in a mirror? Who is always glad to hear my stories? Who is quick to meet my needs? Me. Me, me, me, me.
I just love me. -
…most of the time it’s as I would want it to be.
Until the wireless mouse to my Imac stopped working yesterday just after posting my last writing prompt answer, and no, it doesn’t need to be recharged, it’s dead, kaput, and I think no big deal I’ll just walk down the hill to the Apple store and get a new one and I do and walk back home up hill but the new mouse won’t connect to my Imac, and after a lot of back and forth on the phone over two hours with technical support it’s determined I need to upgrade my operating system except I can’t because you need a mouse to do that and the guy on technical support says I’m in a “tough spot” so I walk back down to the Apple store and we talk and they are very nice and embarrassed about this Catch-22 of not being able to use my mouse unless I update my OS but I can’t update my OS because I don’t have a mouse so I borrow my husband’s mouse and update my OS, and think now everything is solved, but I STILL can’t get my new wired mouse to connect and end up sending off for a wired third party mouse which doesn’t arrive until this afternoon which is why I have not posted until now.
Otherwise my retirement is going fine. -
t’s not some cherished item with memories attached. I’m not even sure exactly how long I had it or where I bought it. It’s just a rather large mug with a black and white design. A Riviera Van Beers according to the writing on the bottom. Which seems to be A Thing. I’ve been drinking coffee from it in the morning for decades.
There are older mugs in the house, including one from boarding school, but that one’s cracked and can’t be filled with anything hot and is kept on a shelf and occasionally noticed and mused over. But it’s not used. -
…nine years old. I sat in a seaside cafe with my family, the remains of breakfast spread across the table, looked out the broad window behind my parents at the beach and knew that was where we would spend the day. White sand, blue sky, curling green waves…
Pam Troy 