Last night I made Spanish Rice.
My brother Bob drove up to town the other day with his new little pressure washer he got at Lowe's which we used to great effect on Felicity Jane. We blasted a winter's worth of algae and dirt and pond scum away. Wonderful.
The best part was running a line from the tip of the mast over to the dock two slips down to heel her over at a radical angle to get at the strings of seaweed that grow around the waterline where the most light and the most air coincide to make the most mess. Some of it wouldn't come off but a lot of it did and it looks much better. We left Felicity Jane sparkling in the sun.
And we got a chance to talk, continuing a conversation that has been going on for more than a half a century. Six decades.
Bob is a chef, not professionally, but he really understands foods and makes wonderful impromptu dinners and he always has some new thing he's done and I learn a lot.
This was about chorizo, the Mexican sausage. So I picked up a hunk of it at Freddie's noting with satisfaction that the beef type has tons of fat, which is my latest dietary burden. It is weird, though, a slimy texture and an artificial looking color but it smelled good browning in the pan, not really browning but rendering some of the oils which I spooned out, then a packet of Zateran's Spanish Rice , and a can of crushed tomatoes, and it looked so rich and red and full of goodness I was totally stoked because it smelled wonderful, too.
So I dished it up with some cheese on top and a bowl of mango guacamole and some big corn chips and I settled in to enjoy and then, after the first couple of bites I remembered something.
I hate Spanish Rice.
(sound of in-sinkerator in background)
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