Good Eats

Yesterday I baked some baby carrots with butter and spices and dumped them on a bed of rice.  It was so good, I'm doing the same today with some rutabaga chunks from the freezer. I love rutabagas. I used to get those cans, Busch's I think. But nowadays the canned ones all seem to be from the core or stem end, like trying to chew pieces of cork or cane. So now I buy fresh ones and chop 'em up.

Evvabody better stand back and give me room--I'm starting this novel over from scratch. I woke up this morning with a light bulb popping on and off over my head, about this novel. I also woke up thinking I'd give $5 for a Coke, but I didn't have to--there was an unopened carton in the basement that I bought back before Christmas, just in case. But then I had to go to the store anyway for milk and you-know-whats.
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So many book I thought I had read, I find when I start to read them "again" that they're new to me. Yesterday I spied Fortune Made His Sword in the bookcase. Had Jed forgot that he'd already brought it back? Or did I have two copies? Anyway, I started reading it.

Being so steeped in the Shakespeare chronicle, and so many English-history books, I know that when I open a book about England, I've got another tear-jerking experience coming. All the old kings were little above savagery, but I have always loved and pitied Richard the Second above them all. He sponsored and supported Chaucer and any number of others, worthy and unworthy. And here comes this little Lancaster telling a York how to be a king. But I like Henry-the-Fifth-to-be, too; especially knowing that he doesn't have long on this earth.

Englishmen all. And women. So silly when they let their guard down. Churchill and Darwin, even Captain Bligh, can draw a tear or two. They all seem to carry the past and the future around somewhere on their persons. Like George Patton.
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The rutabagas weren't as good as the carrots.