A little sleep, a deserved rest.

The Cornish game hens ended up cooking well. I had let my friend know she could either have supper or take one with her tonight or tomorrow. That was a message, left on her device. Since I had heard nothing, and it was getting late, I thought to call midway through cooking. No answer. Then just a few minutes later, a call back. “Could I stop by on my way to work and pick one up?”, she wondered. Yes, it should be done by then I should think. “Oh, do not thaw the turkey in water, there are holes in the bag”. Not a problem, I had too many things on my list to complete to mess with the turkey, further, the only time I use water is when you bring a frozen turkey and want it cooked “tomorrow or sooner”. *laughs* You know I prefer to, at most open thaw, at best refrigerator thaw meats. *sigh* You never learn, or believe, I think this last to myself though I have said it countless times as well. It passes the time she is to start work, and still she has not arrived. That is fine, it was taking the birds a bit longer too to cook. After they finish, I set them out to cool, and begin my gravy. Half so much this time, thusly I drain off half of the fluid in the roater basin. It takes some time to do a gravy well, and I do take my time and do it right. When finished, I decide to cover my hens in the gravy, then further I decide to put these back into the oven, set the oven to 250 F, and to peel, dice, and boil potatoes. Done and done, as I put the potatoes on, hens already back in the oven, she arrives. A little fussing finding a suitable container for the Queen, and finally all is done. She is leaving, and I without thinking tell her, "See ya tomorrow!". She suggests, actually, now that she things about it, she will. Doh! Oh well, I probably could use a pull start in the morning, and pulling hair is just the ticket.

The birds do take a bit longer, since I am messing with extra fruit, placing some of it on top of the birds while they cook, all save her fowl. And, I turn the birds three times during cooking, so it is three times the extra fuss. Ah, but it is fun too. Next time, however, I think I will add a juice of some sort. As well, I think I should prefer cream, whole whipping cream, to milk for the gravy. Cooking, like writing, and in many ways, means nothing. One is written, what it is written upon or within is then stored somewhere, and that is pretty much the end. No one will truly read, and fewer still would even understand the real way in which it was written or what it means. Food is created, perhaps the processes developed, a flavor is achieved, and then both the cook and all consumers go on to what is next. This is not a bad thing, I just think it odd when one tries to indicate either of those are art, if artistic in the creation. I guess I just do not believe, not in art, not in science, not in most religion, philosophy, none of it. Games, man made games with silly rules, none of which come naturally, necessarily make sense, follow the dictates of logic, or even follow their own dogmas. I do have my religion, and it does make sense, but it is a dying religion. Agnostics have bolstered it until they finally realized they could not own it, change it, ruin it. Now they abandon it. There are some, however, who are there because they believe.

Rocky has not devoured a single more fish since he consumed the first three in days. He gets a little defensive, from time to time, as they actually come in to try and eat his special pellets. They have a technique that seems to work, two of them come in at different angles, while a third passes further out but right in front of him. I sort of think it is akin to playing chicken with a semi while driving a Prius or something. I really cannot believe how aggressive the fish get with Rocky. I’ve even seen one ‘kiss’ his back, right where his tail connects to his torso. No, these are not bigger fish. Not a one is longer then Rocky’s claw, point to joint. Me… I am waiting for the crash.

I did not contact my neighbor today. The new neighbors are not here. I did not make bread. I did not finish my climbing certification, though I did attempt that and I do have a time to go back. And I have a mess in the kitchen, with a thawing turkey to work around. She really picked the day poorly. I did enjoy some of the sun and heat. I did make inroads into the last of my unloading and sorting tasks. I did finish most of my laundry. I did get most of the parts for a pull up bar, perhaps pull up ladder. And I did have a pleasant meal. It cannot be called a failure at all. It would be nice to have a little more direction, flow, and specific energy though. In time, perhaps.