Evan is chopping vegetables up in the kitchen behind me, preparing them for roasting and eventually for lasagna: a late Sunday supper made with his homemade ricotta and accompanied by a bottle of Spanish red from our beloved little wine shop just across the street.
My father would appreciate this ending to a beautiful spring Sunday, and he would chuckle at what I bought, completely on impulse, for dessert: Ciao Bella malted milk ball ice cream. Because man, did he love malted anything, and man did I ever inherit that from him. (You should've seen me the last time I was in Bud's Big Burgers in St. Maries, Idaho, shamelessly attempting to flirt with the waitress just to get more malt in my chocolate malted.)
It's nice to imagine laughing with him over a pint of ice cream.
3 comments:
I will buy malted something in tribute tomorrow and think of fond memories while I'm eating it.
Lots of love to you, especially today.
Thank you once again for your notes. I only know this one song by Ellis Paul, but I ought to look into his other work. I'd like to. And about that guy--yeah. Thanks. It's a life experience I guess, and a learning experience. Incidentally, for the past week or two I have been utterly turned off by the idea of spending any time at all anywhere near any man who shows even the slightest physical interest in me.
I have this habit of reading nothing for a while, then catching up on blogs--but it seems that I've been away longer than I thought. Or you've been especially prolific lately. I'm too tired to have remembered to check the dates. Anyway, this small piece of writing about your father is lovely, and it makes me wish I liked malted things.
I love what you said about the rampaging cat (and lament your lack of sleep), about the cat and skunks (makes me think of Pepe Le Peu & friend), dog and skunks and trips. The smell of soysauce and rain on the bus. The airborne mutant jellyfish. Especially the jellyfish.
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