Anyone who has dealt with depression knows that days basically break down into three types: The pits, The highs and Blah. Yesterday was a BLAH. That bad. I couldn’t get off my ass to get out grocery shopping and when I finally did it was a nightmare. I made it home, put the sacks of food away and vegetated on the couch. With the computer off and the TV for background noise I began to pull myself up. After an hour or so I was sitting at the kitchen table. Sweet Caroline and New York State of Mind were running through my head. I started thinking about Sunday, not the next day but a Sunday from my past. My family was at Mass at St Mary’s. After Mass my father parked the car on North Street. I ran to Roly-Poly Bakery and bought a dozen poppy seed rolls while my father went into the smoke shop to pick up two packs of Pall Malls and the New York Sunday News and Mirror. We went home for breakfast, or brunch, we weren’t that upscale. Bacon cooked under the broiler, sunny-side eggs for my parents and scrambled for me with buttered rolls warm from the oven. We spent the afternoon in the living room reading the papers. I got the comics, my parents took the news and the rotogravure. (Google it) When they were done I got their papers. The News and Mirror were relatively tame compared to the Enquirer that my aunt and uncle read. They kept it hidden in their bathroom and I found an excuse to visit and read. My father did errands. My mother put two small chickens in a soup pot with onion, celery and carrot. She added water and simmered them until four. The chicken was done by then. She pulled out the birds and let them cool and we stripped off all the meat. the bones went back into the pot. My mother let me help her cut and peel carrots and celery. She peeled the small onions. At a quarter to five she strained the bones and vegetables out of the broth. It wasn’t the clear broth you find in soups you get in cans or restaurants it was cloudy with little bits. the bones were soft, every nutrient had been drawn out of them. We added the chicken pieces, vegetables and egg noodles. My father showed about six thirty. The bowls were on the table along with rolls and butter. The soup was brought to the table in the pot. We ladled it and ate it dipping the buttered rolls in it. The vegetables were firm and the stock was right in that sweet spot, between being a watery broth and a salty processed canned soup.
So I got off my ass. I found celery, carrots, potatoes and pearl onions in the pantry. There were two boneless chicken breasts that had been waiting for a space in the freezer. There was Andouille sausage in the freezer and condensed chicken stock. (Every kitchen should have those ingredients). I peeled carrots, and cut the potatoes, skin on, celery and peeled the onions. Everything went into the soup pot that takes up space on the shelf. I found a can of corn, I added it liquid and all. The two packets of stock needed six cups of water, I added seven. The chicken and sausage had surgery. They took a swim. I covered it until it came to a low boil. Reduced to a simmer I let it cook until the carrots were a hair below done. It idled until I was watching the six o’clock news. Let it cool and containered it. Slumped on the couch ignoring the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. Washed them and rewarded myself with a piece of chocolate that’s stashed so I won’t find it. (I get senior moments. It works)

Bought a halved and cryo-packed avocado. Have no freakin’ idea why.

Mark Twain died today in 1910 in Redding CT.
John Muir was born in 1838.
Check pictures of them. They were men of their time shaggy, unkempt and aware of what was going on around them.

I thought this was funny:

See you tomorrow.