a collection of random observations

the world’s fourth best soup. maybe fifth. no worse than top ten.

I really need to write more. I feel like it’s been forever and the weird part is I don’t have a whole topic’s worth of thoughts right now. But maybe assembling a handful of short bursts will help get things moving. I mean I’ve added a couple pages to the next book. Or books. I’m still not sure if it’s one book or more than one. There’s definitely a sequel to Platypus in the works—I’m just trying to figure out if the others are part of the same book or something entirely different. But one thing’s for sure... this isn’t part of a book. It’s just a collection of random observations.

I got the idea when I was out walking earlier. I was doing my best George Jefferson walk so I could get as far as possible in the shortest amount of time. I prefer the George to the Billy Crystal power walk. It just seems more purposeful. And besides... I don’t own leg warmers.

I needed a purposeful walk because I thought I might get eaten by vultures. Yes, vultures. Or buzzards. I’m not really sure if there’s a difference. Some of them were preoccupied by the deer carcass in the grass about 15 feet off the road. They were hopping around gleefully and barely noticed me walking by. It was the other ones—the ones perched in the tree like a big, scary bulbs on a Christmas tree. There had to be at least 50 of them waiting for their shot at the deer. Or maybe an unsuspecting, flightless, semi-illustrated, partially tall human. Lucky for me, venison sushi was on their minds on this day, so I did not, in fact, get eaten.

Speaking of eating, I feel like if there was a lottery for dryers, I would’ve won it. I’ve had this one since I moved into my new place. I’m still a toddler here, so I’m counting in months. There have been 16. Months, not toddlers. My place is 16 months old. So is my dryer. And in that time, it hasn’t eaten a single sock. Not one. It’s as if it doesn’t even like socks. Which is crazy, right? Everyone knows dryers eat socks like Homer Simpson eats donuts.

I, myself, am not much for donuts. I don’t think I’ve eaten one since college. The Dunkirk/Fredonia Tops used to have this chocolate glazed donut with crushed peanuts on it. We’d store them in the freezer until duty called. And by duty, I mean the morning after one of the nights tequila and I weren’t friends.

Tequila and I are really tight now. Besties. And there’s no Tops in Nolensville. Plus, I don’t really even like donuts. What I do like is my family’s famous chicken soup. It’s been handed down through the generations, and each person adds her or his own special touch. Mom added spicy V8. Jake added thyme, ginger, and swapped out onions for shallots. His version is my favorite (sorry, Mom). But today I decided to try my hand at it. After 51 years, I guess it was time.

So, I looked on the wall in my kitchen—that’s where I keep Jake’s recipe—and went to work. I chopped up the vegetables with my fancy new knife. Just about everyone who knows me at all knows I have a bit of a fascination with good knives. And Wusthof makes great knives.

My special soup add-ons were fresh parsley and the juice of a whole lemon. I also took a page out of my friend, Dean’s book. As far as I know, he doesn’t make spicy chicken soup. But he does make the world’s best gumbo, which is especially impressive because he hails from New Jersey.

One of the things that makes Dean’s gumbo superior is that he grills the chicken before adding it to the mix. I don’t own a grill, but I did sear my chicken over high heat before throwing it in with my beautifully chopped veggies. A few hours later, I had soup. Really good soup. Not as good as Gram’s. Or Mom’s. And definitely not as good as Jake’s. But it’s been a long time since I’ve had “the soup” and—like I said—it was time. And now, because I am incapable of cooking anything for one person, it’ll be time again tomorrow. And Monday. And probably a few days after that. It’s a good thing I love soup.

Cheers.