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 |    My random thoughts and reactions to my everyday life. The voices like a forum. |
| I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon. |
| September 15th Prompt: What was the most memorable meal you've prepared? Tell us who you prepared it for and the occasion. Picture doe-eyed children fainting with hunger and rocking in their chairs encircling a dining table. Their trembling hands clutch grumbling bellies. Their piteous cries pierce the air. I pull open the door and step out onto the deck. As I tug the lid of the propane barbecue smoke billows out and stings my eyes. I gasp. I cough. I wave away the dark cloud obscuring my vision. Red flames flare and flicker. I hear sizzling.With a sigh I pierce the family's meal with a long-handled fork and wrestle each morsel onto the tray I am balancing. I permit the barbecue lid to slam shut. My free hand wrangles the door open and an elbow bends to catch it as it swings. Three hoarse voices exclaim, "It's about time. We're starving!" The tray clatters to the table and four sets of eyes stare. When no one attempts to spear the meat as I anticipated I go ahead and load four waiting plates. No one, none of the hungry, begin to stuff their impatient faces. While I wait, four forks hesitate and hover over my offerings. The children look to their father. He clears his throat and states the obvious. "This chicken seems to be burned." Before I can think, I snap, "Scrape the black bits off!" Peering at the silent offspring I begin laughing. My own poking revealed the chicken to be beyond seared. I had cremated our supper. Even the soot-encased bones crumbled. "Hey, this is sorta like blackened fish a Creole specialty," I snort. Okay, I confess barbecuing is often beyond my skill set. This is but one example of my prowess and the reason why my hubby would announce to his co-workers, "Well, I gotta go home now. The wife has fired up the barbecue. I can smell the smoke from here." |
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