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Wall art #12

Wall art #12

Here is another photo of a mural that is tucked away in a narrow alley. Once again I was unable to get a head on shot of the painting; and I wasn’t able to digitally manipulate the perspective to make the picture appear to be head on without distorting and degrading the image. But the mural is worth seeing this way for now.

***

I was watching the news this morning and realized that I was only half paying attention. I also realized that I was tuning out what they were showing and saying because I was tired of the negative stories. That doesn’t mean that I want sugar-coated drivel in the newscasts that I watch, but rather I just want to get away from it.

That’s when one of my favorite daydreams kicked in. I was living in a home built into a hillside in Wyoming or Montana or South Dakota, anywhere as long as it wasn’t in a town or city. Think of it as my hermitage (lower case h). Of course I’m not talking about a rough cabin with dirt floors. Oh no; my hermitage is spacious with central air and heating, a large pantry and walk-in freezer to stock for winter, cable or satellite TV, as well as all of my music and books. I never said that I wanted to rough it. I just want to get away.

The major drawback to this fantasy is that Cindy would never agree to live somewhere like that. She couldn’t abide living anyplace where there was a possibility of being snowed in for more than a couple of days. And there is also the fact that she doesn’t want to live anywhere that doesn’t have city water and sewage. Oh, and she needs more people around than just me.

I did say that it was just a daydream. My mood and daydream disappeared when the sun came up.

***

I am usually pretty careful when I am in the kitchen. If I have any doubts about what I’m doing, I pull out a cookbook and check my steps. That didn’t happen the other night.

I decided to fry chicken for dinner. Cindy loves my fried chicken, and I usually like it as well. It is a meal that I have cooked more than any other since we have been married.

I started pulling out the ingredients that I use when preparing the chicken. Generally I use flour, salt, pepper, some Cajun seasoning, garlic powder, and occasionally other spices. I mix the ingredients together, dredge the chicken, and put it in a frying pan with hot oil. Well the other night I went to get the flour and noticed that there were two containers of a finely ground white substance setting side by side. I had recently purchased a bag of flour and assumed that we had so much that the second container was overflow from the first. So I grabbed the container that had the smaller amount.

I was wrong in my assumption. The second container wasn’t flour. It turned out to be powdered sugar. By the time I realized what I had done, the breast that I was frying for Cindy was already coated and in the frying pan. I grew up in a household where you never threw anything usable away, so I went ahead and coated my dark chicken meat and fried it as well. What the heck. It might be good and I could claim another new recipe.

I didn’t tell Cindy what I had done until she took her first bite. When she did, I asked her how it tasted. “It’s sweet,” she said. That’s when I told her what I had done. After having a good laugh, she went ahead and tried to eat some more of the chicken. She scraped the coating off of the breast, ate some, and declared that the sugar had permeated the meat. She ate a bit more and then gave up.

I won’t be typing up this recipe for any friends.

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