We don't even own a frying pan, but the smell of bacon fat clings to the walls. The odor comes and goes. It's kind of homey and comforting, but also creepy. Pork, of all things. Sue-Ann and I are vegans! Am I having a dietary crisis? Am I about to pick back up all my poor eating habits? That was so 75 pounds ago. One day at a time. But damn if the essence of doughnut doesn't wash over me every so often. Such a cruel reminder of my past; the emanation of a full-on Friday night fry-up. Beignets for dessert! I am weak. It's because of the holidays. I just can't get Christmas to taste right anymore. The anguish passes quickly enough when the food frenzy dies down. January isn't the same without miso soup.
Semi-Daily Scribbles
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Kris donned a disguise and took the train into town. He needed to shop for supplies: a down parka, pliers, bungee cords, WD-40, carrots, kale, a hand warmer, calcium chloride pellets. There were also a few items scrawled at the bottom of his list the Missus snuck in: Nivea creme, non-dairy creamer–peppermint–and red push pins. So much to do as the minutes ticked by without a care. Kris loved this time of year, the sliver of it he got to enjoy, anyway. Work demanded his attention when Kris would rather sit with the Missus in front of the fire with mugs of minty coffee. He was determined to get through his list quick and back on the train for home so he could stretch out that sliver as far as he could. -
Definitely the days. They dwindle. I dawdle. Another 365-er over. Loose leaf gray skies. Chilly wind and crackly grass. Everything tastes of peppermint unless there is rum in the cupboard. These are the gifts that give December its woozy one-two punch. For a limited time only: Fried Icicle Lights and Chocolate Covered Holly. -
Lynda's best friend Marnie told her that thing about the tunnel and the light at the end of it. Where the light isn't the illusion. The tunnel is. Lynda grappled with that one during the lunch break when she should have eaten her sandwich instead. It wasn't so much Lynda didn't understand what was/wasn't an illusion, or why it even mattered. She was just used to tunnels being necessary passageways to get from one place to the next, be it from town to town, or one state of mind to another. Consciousness seemed more like the illusion to Lynda, not light, or the opposite of light, or the conduit connecting everything. Lynda's gut told her she was on the right track (although it was most likely hunger and/or low blood sugar.) She just hoped she wouldn't be put on the spot to make a cogent argument on the subject when she so flagrantly disregarded the importance of feeding her brain with midday carbs and protein.
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Sara refuses to reuse bags, bottles, jars, twist ties, aluminum roasting pans and pie tins. The list goes on, actually. These handful of items are just the ones Sara was going to toss today until I intercepted the bounty. It's Christmas, for crying out loud. Some of those bags are plain, brown grocery type with nice handles. Pull out my art supplies and PRESTO! I've got better-than-store-bought gift bags. Jars? I fill them with homemade soup or cookie mixes. Bottles? Homemade liqueurs of course! And since I'm the cook for a ragtag band of misfits with no homes to go to for the holidays, throw away tins (foil too!) are used until scorched and hole-y. Sara is my friend, and I've invited her to turkey dinner with us Castaways–a very exclusive club:)–more than once. She declines every year. I'm not even sure where she goes when she turns me down (which, by the way, I told her hurts my feelings), but she makes a big show of running all over town picking up supplies at the last minute for her mystery feast. I could spare her the headache. All Sara'd have to do is show up at my place. She wouldn't even have to bring anything. She knows this. It's really the only gift I wish for when December comes around. -
juicy fruit
plastic
sweet syrup
imitation
holiday cheer
fake -
Where exactly on the color wheel, Coral, do you spend your time? Today's contemplation had me staring at chips that ranged from Tomato to Tan, with a dash of Peach Blossom Ballet Slipper to boot. I'm thankful I'm not painting rooms, just taking lessons in color to help with writerly endeavors. Color, illumination, angle — most helpful in fiction and photography. -
Pine aroma lingers though the wax and wick have slipped into oblivion. Now is not the season to go without a flame. Blame it on burnout. Holiday staples have yet to be bought. Gifts on the way but the tree needs trimming. Cranberries and popcorn wait for needle and thread to wed them. December rituals. Pick up the scent before the candles taper off. -
Tend to appearances:
the bruises
the hair that gets thin and brittle.Handle all those inconveniences:
the shrinking waistband
the scratches and scars.Revel in the nonsense:
the friendly advice
the wrong words everyone says.Just when people take an interest is when the attention is no longer needed.
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The insignia wasn't anything official. By Craig wearing it on his lapel, it didn't signify bravery in combat or affiliation with a cloistered religious order. The pin was just a jumble of symbols and squiggles that looked nice but didn't mean a damn thing. Not that it was all for show, though. Craig's bit of creative crest-making was nonsense, but it made people get up close and examine whatever it was he proudly displayed on his chest. Craig's insignificant insignia got folks to look, and then talk. Of course, the conversations started with something along the lines of: "What's that on your badge?" Depending on how lonely Craig happened to be when the curious started in with the inquiries, Craig's fertile imagination and excellent vocabulary was guaranteed to keep two strangers engaged for as long as it took for the story to be told.
Semi-Daily Scribbles 