Fried Chicken

I had fried chicken today, sometimes only fried chicken will do when you are in a Southern mood, and it worked, I wolfed down my chicken legs and biscuits, burped and pondered infinity.

You know -- fried chicken -- home cooking -- mother -- fudge -- bumble bees -- cedar trees -- rolling down the hill -- laying in the grass on a summer's eve staring into the black black sky at the enormity, the immensity of the milky way and pondering infinity.

It was bigger than me then and it's bigger than me now and after fifty years I'm still pondering infinity, but my tire was low and loosing air so I drove to Discount Tire and had it fixed, that's two this year, and the painters left a hole in my screen, ladders and scaffolding I guess. So you can see what a mess my life is, disaster all around, but Ian had scored a box of Trophy's Cupcakes and I ate my share, watched the newest Woody Allen film and went to bed, couldn't sleep so I got up to feed The Taylor Blog and ponder infinity.

And what in the world will I cook for Thanksgiving and who will be here and am I really crazy. Tomorrow, well actually today, is another State-of-the-Company meeting so I'll go and see how my paycheck is doing then on to a play date with The Connorman, and my friend Lynn said she liked Mark honoring the women in his life and thinks I should sign my name every time I blog, she despairs of making me behave and I should have left Julia's blog alone after she showed me how to edit it.

No amusing childhood story burbled to the surface for entertaining purposes and I thought our childhood wasn't exactly the rosy cheeked, babbling brook idyllic sort anyway, it had thorns and burrs and manure and dad sitting at the end of the kitchen table, usually with a pipe or cigar, fixing, mending, building, wiring, glueing -- things.

And infinity is still there, sort of like family -- beyond understanding and ain't I glad.