What kind of bullshit can I cheerfully deliver to you today? I’m a jumble-sale of thoughts, not even information: should we talk about the heat wave, the books I’m in love with (The Girl Who Drank the Moon, for one), the reason my hydrangea is lush but isn’t blooming, being gerrymandered into Lake Chelan for the pirmaries, or access to safe abortions? That last ones wouldn’t occur in the chatty side of this blog.
Honestly, I’m happy today, but I’m fatigued and fribbled-fried in my frontal lobe. I can’t think of a thing to grill for dinner, not a damned thing. It’s too hot to go to the grocery store. I want chicken parmesan but I don’t want to heat up the house, stress our minor air-conditioner, cook to an internal temperature of 97 degrees. I wonder if I could make grilled chicken parm work? I’ll bet I could.
If not, it will be one of the vague recipes of a tired mind and my guys will eat it without complaining. I have fed them hockey pucks and unidentifiable wet lumps and they ate them. They even thanked me for my effort.
Thank you for listening, jules