Lunch

 

Well, I sliced cucumber number one today for lunch.  Not all of it, of course, but enough for a couple open-face sandwiches with roasted red pepper hummus and Roma tomato slices. Mm.  Delicious.  It tasted like a real cucumber.



 
The coleus got a drink this evening and I realized how pretty the one plant is.  I didn't get the variety of coleus I usually get every year but this isn't a normal year so I'm taking what I get.  I love the red violet, yellow, and lime green in the leaves.





It's about time to give the chrysanthemums their midsummer haircut.  They send up buds in July every year and every year I cut them off so that I have flowers from them in the autumn.  It's a little game we play, it tries to bloom in the summer but I insist that it waits until the weather is cooler.



 
Most of today I spent right there in that desk chair writing more scenes for Better Than Mom's.  It's been a long time since my fiction brain was turned on but I've managed to eke out a few scenes gleaned from my notes from long ago when I first wrote this manuscript.  It's so much fun to get back to making words stick to the page--or the screen.  Whatever.



I captured the picture of a bird this afternoon too.  A Downy Woodpecker showed up on the suet feeder and actually stayed long enough to have its picture taken.  It's a little female.  You can tell because there's no red on the back of its head.  Boys have a red stripe.

21 July--Barbara Malcolm, Better Than Mom's.

His new employee turned a sweaty face up to answer with a smile.  “You are the boss, Mr. Brady, you do what ever you want.” 

Brady watched as John’s knife kept up its rhythm.  “Keep your eyes on that blade, John.  I can't afford a trip to the emergency room and don't want any extra meat in the soup, if you get my meaning.” 

John dropped his eyes to his hands as he pushed a mound of diced onions away with the blade and pulled another whole one toward him.  “My mama, she taught her sons to cook.  I know what I am doing.  But I will be careful.” 

Brady reached over their heads and turned on the radio to his favorite jazz station.  He pointed at the rest of the onions.  “You finish these.  I'll get to work on the carrots.  We've got three kinds of soup to get simmering before we open at six.”  

By the time the Ike’s Potato Soup (that day’s creamy offering), the Scotch Broth (the hearty soup of the day), and the Chunky Vegetable (the vegetarian choice) were all bubbling merrily away, Brady found himself glad that Dicky had decided not to show up and he thanked his lucky stars that John wanted to work in a restaurant rather than in a garage or a factory. 

The men took a break once the soups were simmering to have cups of coffee and work through the hiring paperwork.  John confessed that he had a bit of trouble reading, especially the convoluted wordage of the insurance and tax forms. 

“Don't worry,” Brady told him, “most people can barely figure out this stuff.” 

By then it was ten minutes before six o’clock and Fay, the breakfast waitress, made her entrance.  “Rest easy, kind sirs, salvation is at hand.”  She flung her hands up into the air and struck a pose like a stripper at the end of a runway. 

Brady whistled and applauded; John gaped. 

It might have been the not peach, not orange, not henna, definitely not natural, red hair.  Or maybe it was the three pounds of jangling bracelets that weighted both slender wrists.  Or it could have been the frosted green eye shadow, purple eyeliner, and caterpillar black eyelashes topping Dagger Red lip gloss that stopped him in his tracks.  Fay dropped her hands and turned to hang up her jacket.  “Who is the new guy?”  She reached over and tickled John’s lower jaw.  “Close your mouth, honey, haven't you ever seen a real woman?” 

Brady shook his head.  “Leave him alone, Fay.  His name is John and I hired him to replace your nephew Dicky who did not show up this morning.  He didn't give notice yesterday.  Do you know where he is?” 

Fay finished tying her apron, rooted in the pockets and pulled out a pencil that she sharpened before answering.  “He’s not my nephew and no, I don't know where he might be.  It's not my day to watch him.”  She held up a finger to stop Brady’s retort.  “And yesterday wasn't either.  Call his mother if you're worried.” 

“I'm not worried.  I'm pissed.  The little creep slouches around here with a bad attitude, and then he feeds all of his lazy friends my food, which I could charge him for, but I don't, and then he leaves me in the lurch.  And on Friday when we're always busiest.” 

Just then there was a thump from the front of the building.  “That'll be Raymond,” she said.  “I'd better go open the door before he kicks it in.”  

Brady watched the sway of her hips as she bumped open the swinging door.  He saw her pause to get the key out of the can under the till, then paste a smile on her face as she went to unlock the door to let in the trickle of customers that began every day in the diner. 

Today's toss was a trio of earthenware bowls that used to belong to my mother-in-law.  One is bread making big and the other two are much smaller.  I like them but don't really use them so why am I keeping them?  Out the door.

It wasn't so hot and humid today.  In fact, this evening it's downright cool outside.  What a relief.  I have no illusions that it'll stay that way but it's nice while it's here.
--Barbara