Well, here we are, a week later, back home, suffering through yet another primary night.
I DID write like six or seven posts in my head during Anglican 1000, which was a resounding success from all I could see. I didn’t see any of it, actually. I ended up on a very comfortable couch in some sort of entrance like room in Christ Church, Plano, in between the library and the conference hall, desperately editing Matt’s live blogs hot off his finger tips. I would manage to finish a full edit just as the next talk would pop up in my email. We rolled along thus only to collapse, at the end of each day, with coffee and then a really really really really impossibly nice dinner.
The first night we ended up in some sort of fancy looking bar wherein Matt said, ‘she’ll have the chicken fried steak’ and then the band, for real, struck up. “We sing stuff from the 90’s” bellowed the young lead lady singer decked out in hat and ill fitting clothes ostensibly from the 90’s “because that’s where it’s at.” Felt really old. Matt moved from gazing into my eyes to sitting directly next to me so we could shout lovingly to each other over the din. Felt really sad to be mentally rehearsing all the lyrics of Alanis Morrissett that I remember not being that great at the time. “What if God was one of us” the young lady wailed. Honestly. Go to church, someone, please just Go To Church.
Why chicken fried steak? Because I had never had it before. The subject has come up two or three times in the last ten years. I couldn’t fathom the concept.
Steak
fried
like chicken.
But there’s no chicken. It’s just fried like how you fry chicken. Wow.
What an extraordinary thing to do to steak. I probably can’t ever have it again or I’ll peg out, but I put it in the top 10 things I’ve eaten in my life, next to all the stuff on the menu from Nuit de Saigon in Abidjan, Cote d’Ivoire.
The next night we went to a Thai place. We were able to talk to each other in comfort and the food, again, was so amazing I ate the entire bowl of rice provided because it seemed sinful to leave even one tiny bit on the plate or table.
So this week I’m back to walking on my wretched treadmill (why does it have the word ‘mill’ in it? This could have been marketed in a much better way).
And now, WHATEVER! REPUBLICAN PRIMARY ELECTION COUNTERS, I’m going to sleep.
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