So far as I know, my mother only knew three jokes. They weren’t real jokes, but short half-stories that she thought were funny, and so she told them on an endless repeating loop, whenever she perceived the occasion called for a little humor.
Later on, when the spiders began to weave fluffy webs in her brain, taking up the space where her short term memory once dwelled, her jokes became fresh and new to her all over again. And again.
One of them had something to do with an old woman who dreamed she was eating Shredded Wheat, and awoke to find herself chewing on her husband’s beard. Every time Mother told this one, I cringed. I was a prissy kid, but even so, the mere thought of it was incredibly disgusting.
Feasting on angel hair, however, is an entirely different proposition. Neither funny nor disgusting!
Sea scallops from Joe Patti’s Seafood, downtown Pensacola.
I snipped the top out of a basil plant bought at Floral Tree Gardens Nursery this afternoon to garnish the pasta bowl. Tomorrow, I’ll plant the basil, along with sage, flat-leaf (Italian) parsley, Greek oregano, chives and lavender. It will join the bohemian perennials in my anarchistic herb garden . The rosemary is taller than I am, and the thyme and marjoram would be too if I were to lie down beside them. (And I would, too, if it weren’t for fear of the fire ants.) I bought a lush bougainvillea in bloom to hang by the bird feeder.
Thin sliced portabello mushrooms went into a 50/50 mix of baby lettuces and spinach and were dressed with a garlic-Dijon balsamic vinaigrette.
Nice dinner, but I wish we had some chocolate ice cream.