Neglect

I have a way of neglecting and procrastinating most of my favorite hobbies in my attempts to try new things, and most times, in attempts to figure out what being 23 really means.  Writing and cooking are two of my favorite past times and yet I see them sitting idly by while I experience and practice new things daily.  Call me crazy, I call myself restless.

But there they are, my two activities, patiently waiting for me time and again to return and trudge on.  So, as you can see, I am writing.  What you cannot see (yet--I'll add photos later) is what I am cooking.

Cucumber and avocado soup with lemon, tarragon, and Greek yogurt.  Flank steak and chicken bahn mi with vinegar carrots, horseradish aioli, and lettuce on baguettes.  Beet chips with curried yogurt.

In fact, I have noticed that my diet is heavily based on yogurt and curry at the moment.  The other night for dinner I had chili-fermented curry salmon and curried roasted cauliflower.

Then came the grill.  I grilled papayas, chicken kabobs with bell peppers, onions, and cucumbers, and kiwis.  I don't care what you put on the grill because it will always be delicious.

I wonder what tomorrow's lunch will be?

Cher-(y)-ish

Dear Sir,

If you would immediately excuse my term "sir" in place of what should be "bartender" and read further I think you will understand my dissatisfaction.

You wear all black as you are told to.  You muddle, mix, shake, stir, and squeeze the precise measurements for delicious cocktails as you are supposed to.  You linger about, serving presumptuous appetizers and long for the clock to reach the midnight hour.

I would tip you greatly.  I would consume more.  But you have single handedly ruined a perfectly stirred mid-evening Manhattan by not having more pride.  You let the poison seep into my drink and cloud the bourbon.

Dear sir, please stand up for all that is right, and don't put that Maraschino cherry in my cocktail.