let it bean garlic snow
This appeals to me in some carnal sense this evening. Salivating at the thought of preparing this tomorrow (minus pasta).
All of this hoopla regarding this forthcoming snow has whipped me into a hunker down with comfort measures mentality. Emmanouil and I had planned to take a day trip to the Pocono Mountains Sunday. By this past Wednesday, this storm had taken on histrionic prognosticator proportions, and we agreed to take a "wait and see" approach.
There is a slice of me that welcomes this. An excuse if you will, an out, to be reticently recuperative from the past work week. And of course, passive photo ops from the windows and decks surrounding our little house in the woods.
Our back up plan to combat cabin fever is to go here. I read about this in the newspaper last Sunday, and I am jonesing. Dali and Kahlo and Cindy Sherman are represented as well as many surrealists I'm not acquainted with (such as Enrico D'Assia) The exhibit just opened last weekend and will be here through May, but I want to see it NOW! My experience with the sold-out Dali extravaganza at last year's Philly MOA, has left me jaded.
In other news, my (presumed) boy cockatiel laid his first egg day before yesterday. I had been at a loss for his recent behavior. He has never hissed at me. He had been making these chicken like clucking/trance noises, and hanging out in the bottom of the cage. (I was fearing illness with the bottom feeder positioning.) After much web/soul searching, we bought a nest to put lone egg in. (comfort measure) I'm praying it is unfertilized, and that (s)he loses interest in this procreation situation.
Of all the birds I've loved (parented) before, none, NONE have ever added this dimension to the cage. (egads)
Time, I guess, will tell the tale of white bean garlic soup snowfall surrealism of baby birds.
Tomorrow is/will be Tomorrow.