pedestrian saga

Friday I crawled home tense and broken and, feeling more Gollum than Merry, opted to stay in while Scott went out. In a few human moments I managed to savor up a pot of black beans and put them on to cook. Then a sip of red wine, the opening strains of Sousa’s “Liberty Bell” from the TV, and next thing I knew, it was four hours later, Scott was waking me out of a black sleep, and the house was soaked in the foul smell of burnt beans.

Sunday I returned to the stove and lived down the black beans incident with a pot of damn fine pasta alla puttanesca (”ho sauce” is my working translation), finally making a dent in the mountain of tomatoes gathered on the counter. It was spicy and sassy and good enough to jar and sell at market, I say!

I’d promised Mum a photo of my crazy new flamenco apron, which I donned on this occasion. Mum’s Bretonne-Sevillana sister Christine sent one each to me and my sister over the summer. Merci beaucoup, Christine! Grosses bises de Oregon!

Ten years ago I visited Christine during Semana Santa and fell totally in love with Sevilla. I’ve vowed one day to return for both Fiestas de Primavera and dance flamenco in full costume…

• Mr. (”Misto”) Gordon
• Gordon-guy
• El Gordón
• G-dawg
• Big G
• Little Dude
• Twinkletoes
• The Flash
• The Gourd
• The Gordomeister
• Gremlin
• Gordzilla
• Stinkbutt
• The Fart

Gordon went under the knife on Wednesday and, three extracted rotten teeth later, returned home positively indignant that he’d been tricked out of breakfast. He’s rebounded remarkably fast to cheeky bunny from little bear with a toothache. Here he is doing his best impression of a garden statue.