I am a tiny wooden boat knocking against a falldown dock on a dark green river that tastes of iron and weeds.
I drift to the end of my painter and that’s as far as I go.
Last night I made calamari a la Ezra.
Tentacles, rings, flour, salt, pepper, garlic aioli, lemon.
Sriracha and beer.
Thank you, Ezra.
I think if I make this for the woman on the verge with a lime chili dipping sauce I might keep her tethered to me a bit longer.
Say a hundred years or so.
If you can’t be no damn good, be a good cook.
I watched Sin Nombre last night and dreamed of bloody killings.