The Secret of the Sardine

You remember that I think I am a pretty good cook, right?  Not a chef.  I don't do reductions or make sauces.  I use basic ingredients to make tasty, healthy meals.  It is just a result of having to take care of myself for most of my life and the fact that only one woman I have ever lived with could cook.  O.K.  That being said. . . . 

Since college, I have eaten sardines.  I know that most people don't find them appealing, and really are repulsed by the idea of eating them.  They are not my favorite thing, either, but they are the superest of super foods, so, so good for you, so a couple times a week for lunch I'll open a can, put them on crackers, and eat them.  

Until yesterday. 

I used to go to the best deli in town right at the very end of the commercial Boulevard.  It was the place where a group of us would meet on Friday afternoons and drink pitchers of beer and swap lies until it was time for dinner.  Then usually we would all decide to go to some funky, cheaper place to eat--Greek, Cuban, Vietnamese. . . .  I also went to this place Saturday afternoons for lunch.  I always got the same thing, a turkey sandwich with mayo on rye with a side of sliced cukes.  The turkey breasts were cooked and sliced right there in the deli.  The cukes were always fresh and sweetened with just the right amount of vinegar and sugar.  

And a big Heineken.  

On the menu was a sardine sandwich.  I couldn't imagine.  It seemed the fish would fall off the bread.  Then one day I heard someone order one, and when they got it, there were no sardines.  What?  Ohhhh . . . . 

Yea, I'm an idiot.  After that, however, I kept eating my sardines on crackers.  Until yesterday.  

Long way to get to this "revelation."  I drained the sardines, smashed them up on a plate, and drizzled Sriracha sauce on top.  

HOLY SMOKES!  

My life is now changed forever.  I can't wait to have them again.  

Duh.  

Just saying.  Maybe you've never done this, either.  

I'm still melting down.  There is too much to do.  I'm losing my shit daily now.  Overwhelmed.  Falling apart mentally and physically.  All I've got for you is the story of the sardines.  

Today I am going to the hospital to look in on my old college roommate.  He had surgery for a broken cervical vertebra.  They sliced his neck open and shored it up with a metal plate.  I haven't seen him for about a year.  He's had a rough time.  Maybe I'll think I'm not doing so badly, but maybe I'll feel worse about the ravages of time.  I don't know.  That is the way it is with "maybe."  

There are a lot of things I don't know like why I think my first line will be important.  I keep working on it.  

"What up, homie?. .  broheme?. . . nig?"  

I have much to do today, so I had better get on with it.  Oh. . . my mother found her glasses.  Or rather, the cleaning lady did yesterday.  They were lying just under her bed.  

"Huh. . . I must have laid them on the bed when I was putting those clothes away."

She hadn't left them at the doctor's office after all.  They weren't in the laundry.  Neither was her phone.  Etc.  I'll pick up her new second pair of glasses that we just bought to replace the lost ones next week.  

What next?  

The tenant's grandmother is turning 107 next week.  Seriously.  Her mother has been sole caretaker for the past decade.  

I can see the future from here.