Betrayed by the FBI; Saved by the Vegetables

...FBI, in this case, stands for Food-Borne Illness,
the bitch that's been riding my back for the past 24 hours or so.

I thought it was the tequila, but I didn't have much at all; like, four shots over the course of several hours. Realistically, that ain't shit. Even on an empty belly.
What the tequila did contribute to the evening's debacle was my tipsy mortal weakness in the face of a meat-laden, rubber-crusted pizza from Papa John's. Oh, lordy. Within three or four hours of ingesting a couple pieces of that stuff-that-claims-to-be-food, it was rocketing forth from my mouth at a velocity that'd make the Cape Canaveral kids blanch with envy.
Terrifying.
How can they say that stuff is food? I mean, it's (barely) edible, sure, but it has the ability to turn the palate into an absolute wasteland, the gut into a chemical testing ground, and the body into one's own worst enemy.
It's fuckin poison, man.

Goatheaded gastronome that I am, I determined to make myself some real food, whether or not my body agreed, and somehow force myself to keep it down.

First off, by way of scene setting, my sweetheart and partner, the guy with whom I share a kitchen, is a really fuckin awesome Cajun cook. Like, not a pretender to the cuisine, but a real live Cajun by birth and blood, a gentleman who was makin' roux on his daddy's stove at age 5. That said, there's not much besides meat in our fridge. And, ohlordgawd, there was no way in hell I could keep anything resembling meat inside my body after 18 hours of vomiting.
Not even his beautiful duck.

I was getting suckerpunched with nausea every 5 or 10 minutes so didn't feel like risking the bike ride down to Waterfront Market for some fresh veg. Everything had to come out of what we had.
And did I ever need vegetables. And broth. Vegetables and broth. Yes.

We always, always have onions, garlic, carrots, and jalapenos, those comestibles whose fortitude is fortunately stronger than their timid aging. Sauteed those with a little dried thyme (out of fresh), some cayenne and allspice, a bay leaf and a few cracked peppercorns. Added a quart of water and cooked it all down to Flavorful. In a separate little sauce pot, I had dried black-eyed peas, water, and a couple cloves of garden-grown garlic, cooking to creamy softness.

Otter came home in the middle of all this, after a long-assed day in the kitchen. Poor darlin was so tired and, after watching me chop, stir, stir, hold on to the counter and try not to puke, stir, stir, wobble with nausea, etc., he began determinedly trying to skooch me away from the stove so he could finish making my meal.
Sometimes, even if it looks like I couldn't possibly be having any fun whatsoever, sometimes gripping the counter top and supporting my weight with a wooden spoon in an effort to take charge of my own sustenance is exactly what I need for my well-being.

I shooed Otter back with both a threat to disgorge on him and a promise to ask him for help if I really needed it. I added a couple of hurricane-emergency cans of Ro-Tel to the vegetable broth, smashed the pea-simmered garlic cloves with a spoon and tossed the whole mess into the soup pot, and then rough-chopped some on-its-way-out spinach and tossed that in, too. Yeah, I think that was about it. Oh, and good sea salt. Of course. I would've loved some fresh corn and okra, but y'know...for being on the cusp of projectile vomiting the entire time, I did pretty well.

And actually, the soup got Otter's approval.
Otter, who is suspicious of any dish without meat.
Otter, who thinks vegetarianism is some sort of mental disorder.
Otter, who cannot talk about "vegan food" without snorting.
He not only ate the soup (with a few extra jalapenos), but wolfed it down and was surprised it had so much flavor.
Vegetarian and vegan food is not as awful as most people make it.
In fact, veggies are the only thing my tortured digestive system didn't hurl back against the wall. This simple little soup took a few minutes longer (including swoon time) than ordering and devouring I'll Eat It If I'm Drunk pizza, but it actually contributed to my well-being rather than detracted from it. And I'll be goddamned if it wasn't tasty enough to warrant kudos from a carnivore. Hell, yeah.

राप्टर Return of the Turkey Vultures

Ohmygod, they're back!

The magnificent, graceful, utterly awe-inspiring turkey vultures are back.

I've been awaiting their return since March.

Otter saw a couple of 'em yesterday, but forgot to tell me about it. This morning, while out picking philodendron and papyrus starts from the yard, I saw a bird shadow pass me. A really big one. Then two more in quick succession. I raised my eyes and had to have been looking at about 30 or 40 vultures in flight, circling right over my little neighborhood. Nearly hyperventilating, I called Otter to tell him that I'd spotted turkey vultures, and lots of 'em. When I got off the telephone and went back outside, the vultures had been joined by about a dozen short-tailed hawks, all of the raptors circling past and through each other, the hawks's 3-foot wingspan looking positively diminutive next to the vultures' impressive 6-foot reach.

Their numbers continue to grow.

I'm popping back outside between every sentence or two to keep an eye on the birds. There are easily 50 or 60 vultures and maybe 2 to 3 dozen hawks up there at the moment. The cats are keeping low down. The chickens are fussing at their clutches, trying to keep their children together and hidden and as safe as they can be, under the circumstances.

The vultures, though...oh the vultures!

They slow Time.

They pass through Space like no other bird, as if they had claimed these patterns and passages long before humans ever even thought to notice Sky.

They are Divine, not just in their aesthetic magnificence, but in their utility as carrion eaters, as ferrymen for the Dead. They are absolutely awesome, in the weightiest sense of the word.

They are beautifully, wonderfully, jaw-droppingly perfect.

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"...and the Signifieds butt heads with the Signifiers,

And we all fall down slack-jawed to marvel at words,

When across the sky sheet the impossible birds

In a steady, illiterate movement homewards."

-Joanna Newsom, "This Side of the Blue"

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I sing this every time I see the vultures.

Every time.

When I've got a head full of pomposity and narcissism, I watch the vultures;

watch them do the things we are too squeamish and self-important to do;

watch them gracefully and unselfconsciously fulfill their genetic proclivities;

watch them make it look like God.

Thank You, Keep It Comin'

For You Who Are Happy & Relieved that Otter and I have each finally found someone as magically, beautifully, deliciously broken as we each are,
For You Who Want to Contribute something to our ridiculously joyous marriage,
For You Who (sadly) Cannot Be Here,
And for You Who Cannot Imagine What We Could Possibly Need,

We've set up a little wedding registry with the few things we need and want for our home.

It really comes down, mainly, to Reference Books and Children's Tales,
to Music and to Cash (much needed to assist both our move to New Orleans and our temporary flight out of the country).

We desperately Love You and Thank You from the deepest reaches of our palpitating hearts.

I Love Bitches

Aw, damn.

It's been so long since I've been able to hang out with educated women, who are just as beautifully angry and vociferous as I am, that I had forgotten just how much these women mean to me, how much courage they give me to continue my shitstarting, instigating, hopeful (if achingly gradual) reformation of the US' dominant sexist/white supremacist paradigms.

I stumbled upon Bitch Ph.D. today and am so utterly, completely grateful that this woman is on the face of the earth and that she writes so prolifically and so well.

Bitch Ph.D., I love you.

And thank you, with all my heart.

Aching for New Orleans

Oh, I am aching to move.

For a girl whose sense of self-worth rests largely on her ability to help people in some meaningful sense, my life in Key West is becoming more than a little depressing. Sure, I'm feeding people (always always always), but it's largely the wealthy, or at least the Wealthy Enough, those people who can afford to vacation here and drop several hundred dollars on dinner. When I'm painting for a living, it's painting the vacation homes of these same people, or painting businesses that cater to these folks. The catering business that Otter and I are starting up will, of course, cater to people with disposable income enough to pay several hundred or thousand for an inclusive meal in their own weekly- or monthly-rented domiciles. I mean, it's great that we can fill needs and niches, but...

...I know there are people out there who are hungrier, who are in more desperate circumstances, who need us far more than these priveleged sojourners want us. I also want to do more than just feed the hungry, y'know? I want to participate in the mycoremediation of New Orleans' soil, so damaged and diseased after being submerged in sewage for several weeks. I want to start guerrilla gardens all over town, not just for their beauty and edibility, but for their ability to brings bright spots of hope into places decimated by man and nature, abandoned by those elected to help them. I want to take Alice Waters' super-awesome Edible Schoolyard and try to duplicate it in other sections of New Orleans, bringing kids in close contact with the life cycle and their intrinsic part within it.

...For all my talk of wanting to do more than just feeding people, it's funny how all the stuff I wanna do just leads back to feeding people or helping them feed themselves.

Food is a beautiful thing.

Growing and sharing it is even lovelier.