Jimmy was out of town last week working. It fell to me to meticulously guard the garden. I watched as the snow peas became many and heavy , the flowers on the squash became fruit, and broccoli became dinner. Our garden ceased to be a lady in waiting and became a viable and plentiful food source. When Jimmy got home last night we celebrated with a simple dinner of grilled vegetables over rice. Baby crook neck squash, carrots, broccoli, snow peas, onions and garlic, seasoned with rosemary, thyme, tarragon, parsley, a teaspoon of apple cider vinegar and two teaspoons of olive oil were sauteed on a blistering hot flat iron and served over a bed of white rice. We added a bottle of daily red for the perfect 'everything from our garden ' meal. We had to make it a gentle meal because Jimmy had a case of 'road gut' going on. A week of eating catered and restaurant food with whatever oil complies with law and is cheapest .... not good. But he's back home with butter and olive oil and fresh organic ingredients.
I turned my week at home alone into a delightful chick week. Time spent with the Good Typist and Feral Jane was refreshing and soul soothing. An incident with the Good Typist left no doubt in my mind (if there ever was one) that the Good Typist is a poet of the first order. An incident that I cant give you all the details about was summed up by her in one sentence and will live on in history. What I can tell you is that the whole thing started when an over moneyed visiting ex pat PARKED on top of my 10 year old beloved camry and when I asked for her insurance info she accused me of ....... (exact quote here) "Being Seattle" and then drove off. You can be sure the woman took one look at me in my paint splattered jeans and red wings and flannel shirt cum jacket, glanced at my favorite beat up old car and assumed that I was poor and uneducated and would be powerless in the face of her designer arrogance and self perceived social superiority. Fast forward to 2 hours later, when she was in near hysterics and completely confused. She had no clue about what had just happened to her or how she dropped from the top of the food chain to the bottom in a matter of minutes. At one point in the process she demanded to know if it was more important to me that she get a ticket or pay for the damages. I kept my tongue firmly clamped between my teeth so I would neither laugh nor tell her the truth: 'My goal here is something you would never conceive lady. My goal here is to teach you some manners and ruin your day in the process. My goal is to sharpen my teeth on your over inflated sense of privilege. My goal here is to show you that ostentatious displays of wealth and power mean nothing in this town where millionaires and billionaires drive used subarus and still wear the t-shirts they picked up at alternative rock concerts when they were in college. My goal here is to have a good story to tell the next time I'm drinking homemade wine with my friends. My goal here is to effortlessly take one step more than you are able to keep up with. My goal here is to make this so painful and frustrating for you, that when you get back to Argentina, you will pause and think before you pull out the nasty on some struggling shop clerk, who is just trying to survive. My goal here is to show you just how expensive a %##t tax can get.'
I would like to acknowledge and thank the citizenry of Ballard for the back-up.
That was on Monday. The rest of the week was all about girl gossip and playing with the chickens.
