Good morning although it’s nearly noon.

Last night was so enjoyable.  More about Outlander later thoroughly enjoyed it and more on the year 1968 where the story picked up.

Can’t imagine how surprised you might be to hear that yesterday, when I saw Turner was showing, “The Long Hot Summer” again, I taped it.  Last night, after Outlander, don’t know why but I was in the mood to watch it again, especially now that it’s summer, it’s the south, and the night was deep and dark, and my porch lights were glowing as I sat in candlelight.  So, I poured a Big Easy into a frosted goblet, sipped and watched and still enjoy that movie as if I’ve seen it for the first time.  That shot of the Mississippi from the view of the barge as the credits and that lovely song play always hook me.  Can’t deny Woodward and Newman had chemistry onscreen, although I have heard others things I won’t go into here, probably never.  It was cool in the living room, the bite of the cold ale, that I felt I was taking refuge from the heat of the summer there in the story.  I went to bed at 2AM, and I feel marvelous.

Interjecting a bit of–venom–no, just an observation.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a person more cunning other than Hillary Clinton when it comes to playing the role of making themselves look like something they are not; it’s the look in the eye, it’s the body language, they’re far more telling to me than perhaps they realize.  But I gotta tell you, in the latest interview from on the other side of the pond, when a reporters tells this person (not Hillary but who reminds me a helluva lot like her) a rom com set in New York reminds him of a Restoration comedy or a French farce, and this person bellows, yes!  That’s right–no one else seems to get that!”  I am amazed at the capacity for pseudo-intellectualism, promoting themselves as something above the comprehension of other mere mortals, and the complete and utter phoniness of their facade.  Do you know what analogy pops in my mind:  I’m in a field of tall, golden grass, and I come across a snake who has this person’s eyes studying me from the lowest level knowing I see it, and I know there’s no direction or maneuver it won’t use to dart, strike, get what it wants.  There aren’t very many people I look at whom I allegorically see as a snake slithering in the grass, but there it is.  Then I remember…I am an owl.  Returning to my question of yesterday about the 90% of income thing, let proffer this scenario…what would go first, the farm in the US, the house in Manhattan, or the manse across the pond…five will get you ten it wouldn’t be the first two!  SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.

Oh God that my lover were in my arms and I in my bed again!

Now from that rather unpalatable subject, let me switch gears and give a Cassoullet report. Absolutely delicious, and very, very rich.  Can only be taken in small bowls, but absolutely divine.  Because it is so rich, I’m going to freeze some of it in portions, but I can’t tell you how much fun it was to prepare and to enjoy.  And in all honestly, as totally delectable, it still doesn’t compare to Mom’s Limas, or a simple plate of good red beans and rice, New Orleans style.  So, what am I cooking today?  A rump roast that’s filling the place with heavenly aroma.  Took some rosemary from the pot on the front porch, minced it with garlic in olive oil, stuffed the roast with garlic, rubbed the rosemary garlic oil on the roast, laid the rump on a bed of onion, carrots, a little rosemary and red wine.  Will be done in half an hour.  Boiled some Yukon Gold potatoes because I want to make mashed spuds, something I hardly ever eat, and spring peas.  But that’s for later.  Want to get a swim in; since I ate the Cassoulet at midnight last night, I’m still feeling a bit full, so rich it was, and I haven’t wanted to eat anything this morning.  There’s a lovely slice of watermelon chilling that I might have for lunch, but appetite remains small.

Now to Outlander.  No, not really spoilers maybe in a way.  Starts in 1968, a year I remember very well.  I’m glad they started there because as tumultuous as that year was, it was one of the most formative years of my life.  Things started coming together at age 15 (now I will have to kill all of you for telling you my age except for the dear ones who already know!)  Claire is older, her child with Jamie is twenty.  Claire reminded me of my mother that year in 1968, the same dark-haired beauty, shorter but still bouffant hair, the tasteful tailored clothes, the trim figure, the gestures, and even the sadness.  When their daughter Brianna walked into a school in 1968, suddenly I was walking the halls of Grace King, feeling the looseness and easy of youth; I even wore my hair like Brianna, dressed like her somewhat, certainly was as skinny as she was back then, it was sweet nostalgia that I was happy to revisit, and I’m glad Gabaldon chose that year for this turn in the story…wonder if it was a special year for her also…and although the topic of arguments was very, very different from the ones Brianna had with her mother Claire, I can honestly say they reminded me of my arguments with my mother back then completely, and now, so many years later, understanding my behavior then, I so completely regretted all of them when I realize what happens once you travel the decades of adulthood that I cringed at Brianna’s anger (knowing the true story) because it reminded me so much of my own behavior.  I’m sorry Mom.  I remembered also how young people my age and a little older acted together back then, and this was apparent in this story, especially the interaction with Roger, who really is a boo-boo who almost does a turtleneck sweater as well as someone else I know.

Well, as I am gearing up to go for a swim once the roast is done, I hear the boom of thunder.  That’s okay, tomorrow I will go earlier in the morning.

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