I just finished watching the first episode of, "The Meaning Of Food", which was on PBS at some point. Not having a television or cable leads to me not knowing a lot of stuff about "popular culture"--something that doesn't always feel like a loss--and I have no idea when the series originally ran.
It was quite an interesting program and I watched the whole thing even though it was very hard to watch at some points. There was a lot of emotional upheaval for some of the people who were in the program and their pain was palpable, as was their joy when they were happy. The process was quite affecting, actually. It made me realize that there are a few things besides flaming trolls and tilting at every form of power that is not supplied by wind, solar, sun or other natural processes that I care deeply about. One of them is food and feeding people.
One of the things I've missed most these last nearly twenty years is not being able to have people over for food and drink and conversation. It's been that long since I've lived in a home in which I could cook the way I like to or enjoy the freedom to ask whomever I want to invite to come, sit and share food, drink and conversation.
I look around my house as I write this and am amazed that after three and a half years I still have not achieved the level of "livingness" that I desire AND I am amazed that I still look forward to getting there. My kitchen is such that I can actually prepare food at this point. My downstairs is sheetrocked, largely wired and plumbed and almost suitable for human visitation. I have oodles of cookbooks, lots of cookware, kitchen gadgets and a genuine love of food--not just the eating of it, but preparing and reading about it, discussing it with other people and learning more about what makes good food great.
I lunch with a good friend from time to time and he always asks where I'd like to go. I always tell him that I don't care, the food is not the reason I'm having lunch with him. The food is the excuse to spend time together. Now, if I can get my kitchen in running order THEN the getting together would be an excuse for doing food!;)
I've been riding my bike of late. Not because I want the exercise, but because I keep finding shit wrong with my truck.
So, the other day I pick up my brake drums after having them turned at the parts store (this is fast becoming a lost art,btw) and am on my way to the nearest non-hydration liquids dispensing emporium. I'm going uphill against the wind with 30 pounds of steel in my backpack when a gust of wind pushes me to my left. With all of the weight that was on my back I couldn't stand up fast enough to jerk the front wheel off the pavement and right the bike. I tried going a little left and looping back and a car with three young ladies in it (that was probably going at least ten miles over the posted limit) was suddenly about ten feet off my port bow. She was standing on her brakes and I was going all ahead starboad rudder but it wasn't enough. I ran smackydab into her passenger side just ahead of the passenger door, bounced off, went to the ground and AMAZINGLY stood up, picked up my bike and got out of the road (a four lane state highway at rush hour) without getting run over.
The young lady driving the car was, to put it mildly, freaked right the fuck out. I was a bit abashed, m'self, but, other than a few sore spots and a massive case of "Jeezlouise, you stupid old coot! (sotto voce)" I was okay. My hip and knee did hurt the next morning, but I'm fine. I had a helmet on which certainly would have made me less uglified if I had whacked my head on the pavement and I was wearing a very slippery nylon windbreaker with a thick sweatshirt under it and dungarees with decent shoes. The factors of speed, weather, pavement conditions, etc., were not going through my brain in the seconds before impact. Nor was I "afraid". Most of my brain's activity was focused on my hands and feet. What little wasn't being used for motor control was involved in, "WTF!!!ing".
I don't believe in anything but statistics/statistical anamolies as an explanation for why some stupid things that folks do result in them being able to write about it later and other stupid things, being done, lead to closed casket funerals/Darwin awards. In the instant case, a statistical anamoly allows me to be able to sit here, typing, instead of being involved in some rather unpleasant alternative scenarios.
I have no words of wisdon on this. I do have a few suggestions.
Always wear a helmet when on a bike (people or ponypowered).
Call a friend and have them pick-up the brake drums for you.
Live long enough to develop a sense of humor about making bad decisions.