EuroChook Saying Heya

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Yep. I do a little cooking. Or a lot. Absolutely I adore Southern style, spice and strong coffee. I also cook Italian, French, Belgian, Yugoslavian, Thai, Indian, South African, Chinese, some Japanese, Filipino--but never all on the one night.

Or we can just get down to it and barbecue.
 

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EuroChook said:
Wait. No. I didn't want to say allll that. (Any churches still open? Still time to repent, baby!) What was it again? Oh yeah. Jenny laid an egg! :) ( She hadn't done that trick in a few).
Click to expand...
And the amazing thing is? Jenny's not even a chicken! Haha

No, she is. She is one of the older hens, 5 years old, back at the homestead. All has been well with her, but these days she is egging less and less it seems.
 
Ok, good people. Im on a plane.

Tonight (local time... whatever 'UTC' means. It's on the clock in the display before me, but it's still dark), it is dark. As most nights are. I would send you a pic out this window. But it would reflect back all black and blank my wistful face and nothing more. Morning is a fable. I am waiting to emerge from this mumbling, snoring wormhole and its scant alien light at about the point the sun rises like a glowing disc of red flames over the Pacific.

I have been away on a wedding mission. (Not mine, kiki. There is still time for me to try and win your heart! Isnt there?)

Here's the scoop.

I hate weddings. But I owe my cousin. He was never there for me, and once sabotaged my happiness with a girl he also liked, who liked me. You see how I owe this sullen idiot so much. Oh but Emma. Our... no. *My* Emma... My gosh! Those balmy beach nights, the sabulous stars, the silken sand... a furtive touch of hands... and her hair like warm bronze in firelight, (marshmallows melting on blackened twigs over that fire). Those eyes, that smile--each smile, and the gods that adored her, and I died and was resurrected to her grace! That hair, a warm brown in daylight, soft velvet against my cheek.. a stolen kiss in a generous quirk of a moment, sea air, a golden moon, when her parents, and mine, were all preoccupied. Ahhhhhhh... who I would kill to make her mine now! I would not care. If married---I would defy God and Earth for my Emma... I would love her in ways unimaginable... poetry, golden stringed violin on a morning lawn, as mourning me had waited for her ingrate husband to depart for some boring job in his boring hupmobile... or, if a manque lover were to find his mismatched match, to sneak in a window casually left open. To give her all I could give, to make her so happy, to show her how she had always owned this lonely heart... ohhh for the chance! To command any moment and make it, with blessings immeasurable, all hers! That hair.. her eyes, silken rainbows; her perfume heedy on my young senses; her stature, this awe she commands timelessly, this rhapsodical rapture.. Emma. What name besides have gods apportioned those like my seaside maiden? Who could be like her? (Born June 16 to a specialist in Paleozoic cave art and a gypsy, in a small cove now forgotten in the heights and tremors of the Jura Mountains).

You see, I went to his wedding to see if someone had poisoned his slice of wedding cake, or that nerve-settling snifter he would have downed before the ceremony, as flower-donned he scoffed at the world, and slaked dry throat with anti-freeze. Ricin is the mendicant of the mendacious, and one much recommended by Meducal Detectives. Ass's mate. I hope he died by all my wanton willing, (and speeding delivery truck), before the honey moon tonight. Honey moon. Drubbing, drolling money moon. Clench and cunning Honey--Doom!

Weddings. No. I detest the bravado and nonsense. I may not even go to my own. (Babe, you know I love you. Send me a selfie? No, well. Of course Im serious! See you at 8). Hmm depends.

Ok. Why should we pay for a wedding? Not Adam to Eve, when Adam whispered in the spectacle of first romance, "miracle after me!" And wooed Eve cordially, "my forever love, my flesh after flesh." What a poet this, my Adam thus. Not bee to the fresh flower ever asked, wholesome one--what is thine worth? What gold coin will I carry for you, weighed and minted in either heaven or earth? (Or hell, for this lost Orpheus). Hm. I was thinning.. (stupid internet thing, sticking out like some weird nude from the back of the seat in front of me). Nooo--*thinking.* Yes. Thinking this last week... it is just using romance as extortion! After giving these goons 50 thousand dollars, will they really come round the door when something ain't right? To change a diaper? To smooth over inevitable conflict, no matter how petty, when two lives for the first (and last?) time are brought together? (Oh my Emma. If only you had loved me as the first Emma her first man! I would take any downfall for the mighty name of my sun-blessed goddess Thee! To again kiss those blossom-fresh shoulders!) Or racket after protection money, if all is well? Huh. If all works out--we demand a partial refund! (Oh yeah, and we will change our own baby's diapers).

Hm. A shot of bourbon, and 27000 cold feet above a moon-bloated ocean make Johnny a dull boy. They have their effect. I am floating like death above a paradise of obese people, who in straining huts dwell in those dark islands far below (Google said so, an hour after our rickety wings were level. Then told me my location was unknown. Well freaking duhhh. No beer deliveries for me then).

"It's dawn. It's time I went home," someone once sang, long dead, alive again in my headphones. (Free kiss to anyone who can tell me who that was... please be a lady please be a lady, he wishes).

Anyway... I had better send. Internet on this flight has cost me a milliion dollars a minute. One would expect free drinks at such a rate. But oh well... better than staring out a window toward a sea I can't see. (Cant fathom? Nah. Too pretentious).

Did I mention... I sorta like chickens?
 
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