Bram Farrell here…you know, The Raven. Just sitting around counting dust motes like everyone else. Really makes us all family under the skin, doesn’t it?
Even if some of us aren’t “real” people but fictional.
You know. Like me.
Does that stop J.B. Dane from insisting I need to stay in touch with everyone? No, it does not. If she were a bit younger, I might suspect there are dominatrix costumes hidden in her closet.
(As she’s looking over my shoulder, she just muttered, “You wish”.)
Which brings us to the topic for the day.
And, no, it isn’t sex. It’s close though. It’s another delight of life – food.
Preferably food cooked by someone else and brought to the table.
Food that you leave a tip for the person who brought it to you.
Yes, I am craving the temporarily lost experience of going INSIDE a restaurant, ordering a drink to sip as I ponder the menu. The ambiance! The sounds of strangers enjoying themselves or spotting the lone diner with a Kindle propped in place to lose themselves in a book while waiting for a savory meal to be delivered. (It has to be a Kindle as I can’t imagine anyone wanting to read anything but RAVEN’S MOON or one of the Raven Tale prequels which are only available for Kindle. I mean, why would you want to read anything else?)
For those of you familiar with my tastes already (because you’ve read Raven Tales stories), I’m sure you can picture me with a tumbler of Evan Williams bourbon at hand and a steak with my name on it sizzling somewhere in the restaurant’s kitchen (we won’t mention vegetables because as food they might be dubious to some of us). It’s certainly what I’m dreaming about.
Although J.B. lives in Kentucky bourbon brewing country and I’m in Detroit, we share the same mind dimension. It’s like cohabitating but not.
Do I get steaks cooked to perfection here? No. She dislikes cooking and would rather eat out, too. I must have inherited that from her. But we ran out of Evan Williams weeks ago and when I mention it (she says “whines about it”), she points to the tall bottle of Jim Beam another writer gave her in January.
She does not understand taste nuances. Hell, the woman adulterates the heavenly elixir of EW by pouring a dollop of it in a glass of Pepsi! Of course, she thinks Jim Beam is the same. She can’t taste it as a true connoisseur of EW does.
Granted we have had donuts, another of my weaknesses (and hers) because while the grocery store may be out of toilet paper, it isn’t out of Krispy Kremes.
We tried ordering something from Olive Garden online then pulling up to the restaurant’s door to pick it up. Yeah, it’s the same meal but…well, it just isn’t the same. I’m sure you’ll agree.
About now I’d kill for a breakfast Slam from Denny’s.
Beelz is no more happy than I am. A virtual 50-lb. bag of generic dog food appeared to sustain him. The woman does not realize the chance she is taking in supplying something that looks more like gravel, though not quite as hard, for a hellhound to munch on. I really think he’s missing buttered popcorn from Target. She might buy chocolate for her own savoring but she is not sharing it. Not with him (because, hey, he’s a hellhound – chocolate doesn’t affect him the same as it does normal mutts), and not with me. We’ve got one selfish author to cater to.
‘Cause, of course, Beelz and I DO cater to her. She invented us. We owe her.
But if she thinks either of us will be content with a visit to Burger King with coupons in hand when the restaurants all open once more…well, she’s dead wrong on that!
Stay safe. Read – write and post reviews. Nice ones. And may the gods of takeout be kind to you.
P.S. With appreciation for the picture I used! ID 101000315 © Boris Ryzhkov | Dreamstime.com