portrait of every living soul.
Instead of suicide I am cooking. Caramelized French Toast with bacon and fried eggs for breakfast. Paella last night, with cod and squid and argentine red shrimp and andouille sausages and vialone nano rice. Saffron. Garlic. Rosemary. Crusty bread dipped in olive oil infused with red peppers, garlic, and more rosemary.
Garlic Aliolli to spoon on top.
A bottle of Ripasso to go with.
Got up this morning and grilled a couple of the left-over andouille sausages and fried some eggs and made some toast and ate that with a pot of strong coffee. Then I started on the baby back ribs and tri-tip and the baked beans. Ribs marinated in Kahlua then rubbed with spices and braised in the oven, low and slow, to be finished on the grill later. Tri-tip dry-rubbed with salt and pepper and garlic, resting on the counter for a few hours before it goes on the grill as well. The beans bubbling away, filling the whole house with the smell of garlic and molasses and ketchup and barbeque sauce and bacon. I’m going to drink beer and barbeque and eat leftover paella and I won’t stop until it’s dark and i’m stupefied with liquor and food that was made with love and tenderness and passion and as a direct fuck you to the forces of death and loss and stupidity, forces which lie, not outside of me, but within.
It is a battle to the death.
I will feed the woman well, if I can do nothing else.