Perhaps it was a poor prelude that I watched again the “Faith” episode from Outlander before I watched last night’s latest episode.  I fell asleep halfway through it last night, and no, I wasn’t potted on Soave, only had two half glasses evenly spaced.  But I did sleep soundly, awakened at 3 AM, sang the Gloria out loud to annoy any cretinous ones waking me up, fixed some coffee and watched Outlander from last night that I had taped.  It was very good but I miss France, even if it was so unhappy for them, but there was such drama and humor there; now it seems they’re back in Scotland putting up with sourpuss old chintzy Scots, no insult to Scots intended.  I miss the odd characters of France, the King, Louise, Mother Hildegard, Magnus, Raymond, Bouton, Monsieur Foret with his sour sucking lemon or smelling something worse face, even the evil but oh so handsome Comte St. Germain.  And the costumes.  I realized something–a lot of their sets in Paris, especially some of the interiors of the homes reminded me a bit of the French Quarter.  Perhaps I am more of a Francophile than an Anglophile than I thought.  But in this episode, they are continuing, in Scotland, that Claire is La Dame Blanche, the White Lady, the White Witch.  And I had an insight–ever since a relative told me around post Katrina that I was evil and needed an exorcism because I can sometimes–see–I’ve just let it go.  But last night, Jamie confronted his grandsire who was about to kill Claire because she had a “vision.”  She’s faking it, actually, but she does have amazing healing gifts that go beyond her once being a WWII nurse going back in time…well, when the grandsire was going to kill her, accusing her of being a witch, Jamie told him, “do you not know the difference between one who practices the dark arts and one who has the powers of the Old Ones?”

But after watching this, I got terribly sleepy and went back to bed before 5 AM.  Fell into the most beautiful sleep and had the most beautiful dreams; these dreams are of the quality that I used to have when young, actually  even before Mom died.  One in particular, I dreamed of a place in the French Quarter with high ceilings, old, and walls painted the most beautiful shade of blue, covered in gorgeous paintings of red and gold; and then I heard singing and dreamed that my crock pitcher on the dining room table, now filled with daisies, was filled with tall spears of purple irises and rising behind it as a backdrop was my abstract painint of Louisiana…they seemed to go perfectly together, and I awakened perfectly happy without a vestige of stiffness.

Cooking for the week.  Since tomorrow is Memorial Day, made a diving potato salad with a soupcon of horseradish.  Oven barbecued an unusual dish:  chicken breasts, smoked sausage, cherries, dried cranberries, pineapple with green and red pepper in a tangy barbecue sauce cooked very slowly.  Smells heavenly.  Can’t believe I want more buter beams, i.e., ‘dem limas, but a pot is bubbling away for the end of the week; bought a beautiful plump, purple eggplant that I didn’t want to go to waste so I sliced it into spears, put some Creole tomato slices on it, a few cherry tomatoes, drizzled olive oil, garlic, I Italian herb and bread crumbs, and this is slowly cooking in the oven.  Pots and pans are all cleaned, I’m not hungry yet, but am ready to crash, probably watching Destination American for a while.  Not up to a swim, pool is out of commission again.

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