And when she was good, she was very, very good, and when she was bad, she was horrid. Was every kinda mad today about every little thing. And then we went to get pumpkins. So I was bad, very, very bad, and then we went to get pumpkins. Good then, very, very good.
The little things, well, the little things are microcosms of the big things. Don’t sweat the small stuff, sez they. Okay, I can work with that. The catch is – and it’s a catch big enough to fill the hold of a seafarer – the small stuff is often a microcosm of the big stuff. And that, I can’t work with, around or after. I get mad. Horrid.
And when I am good, I am very, very good. Do so love vague cooking instructions. They are, after all, after all the small stuff and all the big stuff, much more precise than precise cooking instructions. Vague cooking instructions such as “At the right cooking point it must be removed from the heat” are quintessentially precise. Smell, listen, let your sense of time tick away methodically, you will know, or you will be checking often to be sure that you know, when the “right cooking point” has arrived. Precisely. I can work with that.
Today was the day to get pumpkins. We knew. And too early for carving. Sprayed down those blue, white, orange, knobby, smooth, and lumpy beasts with hair spray to keep the squirrels from munch, munching, munching them to rot. Squirrels are on the raw food diet and perfect timing is their MO. The thing drops, THUD, a squirrel appears on cue, stage left, chippety, chippety, chippety, munched to mulch and chips. We have seen our jack-o-lanterns disappear from the inside out, squirrels doing the incisored microwave. Wave. Wave bye bye bye.
All by way of saying, everything must be stirred from time to time, and everything must be removed from the heat at the right cooking point. When it’s getting stuck to the bottom, stir it up! When it’s about to boil over, stir it up! When all the good stuff has settled, stir it up! I can work with that. watchit. Watch it. Watch it! WATCH IT! WHATCHIT!! Remove from heat, please. Done. I can work with that.
“I don’t see what’s so odd about spaghetti sandwiches,” says Hachihiro, the older of the Yonekura brothers. “Japanese like them,” he says, eyeing a pile of left-over spaghetti sandwiches from the lunch rush. “Well, at least, some Japanese like them.”