Hissy Cat

« So Much Fun | Main | Not Acceptable »

November 16, 2005

Must Be The Pills

At two in the morning I weathered a small but surprizzing blizzard of domesticity. I made creme anglaise. Out of nowhere! I was compelled by this totally uncalled for urge to make pudding. . . or custard. . . or charlotte russe. Of course, I did not have the necessary ingredients. I made the "creme" using the rice milk I dug out of the back of the cupboard. The egg and sugar mixture, when added to the hot rice milk, did not behave. The stuff smelled ok, but looked like a pot full of curdled vomit. It may even have tasted ok, but I couldn't tell you, as I don't eat things that look like curdled vomit.

The domestic urge was predictably brief. I did not clean up. The stuff is still on the stove, looking, now, like curdled vomit that was left out and congealed.

I wrote a story about a chef who cooks pudding in lieu of leaving her husband. I don't know if this happens to anyone else, other writers maybe, or if it's just my special brand of insanity, but sometimes I'll be doing some random thing-- cooking creme anglaise in the middle of the night, for example-- and it will occur to me that I am acting like one of my characters. Not that I'm leaving (or not leaving) my husband. Not that I have a husband. But the fictitous personage in question compulsively cooks yolky foods for the numb and comfort of stirring something and the milky smell. She even makes creme anglaise specifically, in the very first paragraph of the story. I creep myself out. I must be out of my skull to think of things like this.

But, aside from the back pain, which I think is getting worse, I felt some amount of better today. Like my heart pain was finally abating some. I picked up that package I've been meaning to pick up forever, then walked over to the Embarcadero and sat around looking at water and bridges and listening to Martha Wainwright (hitting repeat on "Bloody Motherfucking Asshole" more than once) and smoking. It was the golden hour, with sunlight that could break your heart. Smog obscured everything on the other side of the Bay Bridge, like someone had spilled water on a page and blurred out all the lines.

I walked home, and when I got in the gate there was mail-- the good kind; not bills!-- waiting for me. The new New Yorker had arrived, and it contains a wonderful poem I love ("Impersonater of Blank Walls" by Charles Simic). And even better, I recieved a packet containing two new books for me to review. And if there's anything I like more than books, it's free books.

And my new friend (!) invited me to a cool art cool thing on Saturday, so there's that to look forward to. That and the Peckinpah film fest in Berkeley.

New reasons to live. Which I deperately needed, as I've watched all the Desperate Housewives I've been able to download.

P.S. I haven't been able to download many. If anyone has any Desperate Housewives and would be so kind as to share, I'd be eternally grateful. I'd bake you cookies and mail them to you and everything. (Pudding doesn't ship well.) Seriously. I'm getting fiendish and I need another hit.

Posted by hissycat at November 16, 2005 07:39 PM

Comments

Posted by: cheryl at November 16, 2005 08:51 PM

Posted by: hissycat at November 16, 2005 09:09 PM

Posted by: Kyle Hasselbacher at November 17, 2005 01:42 PM

Posted by: Watkin at November 24, 2006 02:51 PM

Posted by: Watkin at November 24, 2006 02:56 PM

Posted by: simpsons nude at November 24, 2006 11:44 PM

Posted by: simpsons nude at November 24, 2006 11:45 PM

Post a comment

Name:

Email Address:

URL:
Remember Me? YesNo

Comments: (you may use HTML tags for style)