I’m spending my Sunday morning cooking collard greens.
I remember when Sunday mornings used to be about hangovers and trying to get rid of whatever trash I’d picked up on Saturday night. Today, however, I got up at 9, went out for some breakfast, stopped by the bank (where I had to stand in LINE behind annoyingly perky yupsters in jogging drag), and came home to the pot, the greens, the salt pork (why can’t you buy fatback in California?), and “In the Heat of the Night” re-runs on TNT.
Yer humble host is feeling pretty damned domesticated this week, although there’s no danger of wedded bliss or a house in the suburbs. The thought of being coupled and having to spend every waking moment with someone else in close proximity is no more appealing now than it ever was, although the house part doesn’t sound too bad. But not in the suburbs, thank you. Maybe in Minnesota or Detroit.
Maybe this is all just leftovers from my trip home. Who knows?