My Fresh Hell
Life in Scribbletown.

I Hate Freedom

Not really. But I did wonder aloud this morning to my husband how quickly I would be stoned to death if I went to the parade wearing an “I Hate Freedom” t-shirt. Because what I really hate are the blatantly, literal-minded people that mix general patriotism with a heaping helping of Christianity so that if you’re not with them, you’re nothing short of a terrorist – this century’s Commie. Frankly, I love freedom. The freedom to not be like the majority.

So instead I wore a black Cary Grant t-shirt instead. Power of pride, man. Power of pride.

We arrived early for the parade and went into the blissful air conditioned activities building where the book sale was being held. I knew we weren’t going to stay long at the shindig when I noticed it was already 90 degrees as we were leaving home. At 9:00am. Damn! But we did very well indeed. For $5 we got a heap of excellent children’s books and I got three books for my generalized kitsch collection: “The Best Plant Book Ever” by George Seddon, a book about house plants from 1977 (I love the awful brown and orange rooms in these period books); “Food For Two” by Ida Bailey Allen (published in 1947); and a publication from the Douglas County Historical Society: “This Was Our Livelihood, volume II”. There was no indication in which state Douglas County was located until I’d read quite a ways into it. Minnesota, apparently . It’s a book of oral history – regular folks who do regular jobs, back in the day, talk about their occupations. Everyone from a nursery school owner, well drillers (oil and water), funeral home owner, barbers, etc. Could be fodder for a story one day.

The second book – Food For Two – opens thusly:

“Questions asked by twosomes the country over:
“Business girls, doubling up in one-room apartments.
“Young men, batching in cramped quarters.
“Dwellers on house-boats, in Quonset huts [ah, the post war times] and trailers.
“Older couples, children married and away from home.
“Brides and grooms in kitchenette apartments.”

“To buy and cook food for two—a tiresome chore.
“To get meals on time, when going to business—difficult.
“To cook good meals in cramped quarters—almost impossible.
“To eat out—expensive and unsatisfactory.”

“So in answer I have written this book.”

Fascinating. It has chapters entitled, “Wheerever you cook is your kitchen,” “Glamorize with a sauce,” “The salad’s the thing!” (which includes the heading – "What, no refrigerator?") and “Deserts to make you famous.”

So, then we stepped out into the heat again to watch the fifteen minute parade of strolling people, kids on bikes, dogs wearing red-white-and-blue paint, and the famous synchronized lawn chair brigade. You had to be there.

Home again for lunch and naps. When Red awoke (in a foul, screeching banshee of a mood which lasted the rest of the day), I made dinner: pesto potato salad from the new vegan cookbook I was given recently: "La Dolce Vegan!" by Sarah Kramer. It’s quite scrumptious though I’ll admit I made the pesto with parmesan cheese because that’s why I’m a vegetarian (lacto-ovo) and not a vegan. I love me some damn cheese!

The salad, a filling main course, consists of cubed boiled potatoes (the recipe calls for new potatoes but I used the russets I had in the hutch), fresh green beans (cooked in boiling water for no more than 7 minutes), cherry tomatoes (or sun dried tomatoes but - ick - I don't those) and some balsamic vinegar. I added black olives because I like them. Really, anything could be added: corn, black beans, red bell pepper.

After dinner, Dusty helped me water the vegetables (and my new fencing seems to be keeping Mr. G. Hog where he belongs – out of my garden) and then we lit sparklers. We were also going to celebrate with firecracker popsicles (red, white and blue!) but Dusty got all surly and demanded a lollipop instead. What. Ever.

Thus endeth another unexciting Fourth of July. The next village over usually has fireworks and I’d considered taking everyone down there this year but for some reason they were cancelled. So, so much for that idea. Maybe next year.

Ah, nothing like a three-day work week, eh?


8:18 p.m. ::
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