Coffee: Cafe Pajaro Extra Dark, Trader Joe’s Brand; I got up and ground the coffee; it was heading on eight, dawn was long gone; there was a spider by the grinder, a big one; I looked her up to make sure she wasn’t poisonous and when she wasn’t I left her alone; all morning, I sat six feet away from the spider drinking my coffee, reading my book; it rained outside; I listened, she listened; it was good to be together; the coffee had a flavor like pipe smoke, and it stuck to my tongue like a phlegmy kiss
I didn’t leave the house today. It was just that sort of weather. Grey, cold, on and off rainstorm. I took the weather like a sign and kept myself in comfortable gym clothes. I had hot drinks, coffee and tea, and a beer with dinner. The apartment stayed warm.
Around noon, E started de-boning two pounds of chicken. She had a pair of scissors and blue plastic gloves. When it was finished, she threw the meat and bones into a big pot full of water and set it boiling. After a slow boil, she turned it down and left it on low. Every couple months, E makes chicken stock. When she does, the smell swallows the whole apartment. Thick, viscous, you’re walking through fog that’s two parts Kentucky fried and one part iron, that bit of dead flesh that hasn’t started rotting, a smell like nothing else. The first day’s the hardest then we get used to it. Usually, she runs the pot for half a week.
It’s late night now and the rain’s started up again. An average Saturday.
Currently Reading: Another Country, James Baldwin
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But that cold soup stayed with me. It resonated, waking me up, making me aware of my tongue, and in some way, preparing me for future events.Anthony Bourdain, Kitchen Confidential