ad hoc

trundle down to the lower haight, hair freshly cut and kissed dried. Armed with mache and mint and wine. Drink at our former comforting diviest of the dives transmogrified into the the sort of oddly akimbo swanky Irish pub, like anyone didn't think that was an oxymoron, the jewel of a juke box has been replaced by the television and the walls that were green are a very tasteful ivory. It's just not the same.

ad hoc dinner for four, P said she had pasta and tuna....
sweat shallots in butter and oil from canned tuna.
forage in fridge.
find cocktail olives and various mustards.

In the salad bowl, liberally douse with salt, melt with rice wine vinegar. Fine slice cuc, drop into seperate bowl with icecubes and rice wine vinegar.

Slice cocktail olives if for no other reason than to prove to irracible friend that I am absolutely one hundred percent right all of the fucking time and my pallet is queen, good queen of all things. Add olives to melting shallots, add a swirl of the italian red you are about to drink, just for the fuck of it. Fold in the tuna, which sounds dirty.

Swirl in a little tomatoe, swirl in some olive oil, swirl a little sherry wine vinegar, blast with herb de provence, salt and pepper, wish he was standing at your shoulder, wish it were just that much easier. Because I can stand in anybodies kitchen with a bag of noodles and the scantest of seasons and make it taste alright

I learned a number of hard lessons from the Chef, easiest among them is always toss your salad with your hands, ha.ha.ha. And the perfidiousness of having your heart cock blocked by imperious indifference, yeah alain, I learned that lesson from the master. And PS, why is it I always fall in love with first names that I hate, I am beginning to think that I am conspired against.

that and the aftermath. Those eyelash fair antenae sent hurling to the ether in the wake of my heart ache-- I'll pick up the thread later, tonight I just want the sweet familiarity of my bed, I want to sleep a little....