Let The Pho-rce Be With Me, Pho-Real, Pho-Real. The Son Visits, He Has a Cold, and Soup-er Man Comes the Rescue.

At least this is the story I'm telling myself. I won't get sick until Syracuse. That's my routine. For Chitunga, it's when he comes to Connecticut. Home is where we let our guards down and the frantic insanity of our every day lives finally disappears. So we get sick. And he never gets sick, but every once in a while his head fills up, he gets exhausted, and like me, he's a big baby.

Actually, he hasn't been that bad. I told him, however, I'd get him Theraflu and also find a soup to make. I set out in one direction, but all the ingredients I kept putting into the cart led me to believe I might try my hand at Pho: beef broth, onions, chives, garlic, cloves, etc. It simmered for two hours and I cooked the pasta on the side and also bake spring rolls to throw into the mix. The result was a nice flavor...not quite Mecha or Vietnam Kitchen or TD Palace, but I'm impressed with myself. He was impressed, too, before settling down to Monday night football.

I think I am going to move my office indoors, as it's time to close the porch...I'm getting the Sherburne, NY vibe, where my grandmother kept many items, but closed to the outside world. It was always freezing out there, and that is what it is becoming in my little work space. I hate moving indoors, because I live on my writing couch (well, used to be a chair, but that is gone). 

I didn't achieve all my Monday goals, but I attended to many of them. The trip to Denver exhausted me and I will likely get Tunga's cold. He's 30 today, but I'm not suppose to write about that as he made me promise not to share his world with everyone else. Obviously I don't listen...and this is only because of love and my personal need to process my every day. Luck of the draw, kid. Luck of the draw. I won't do the Facebook bonanza, though. I can simply keep it here on a blog he probably will never read. 

The good news is we have leftovers. Lys comes tomorrow and tonight we treat him like a God...by that, he picks the location and I pay the bill. It's a ritual. And I luck out, too, because he has expensive taste and I can try new things (we've come a long way since his first request over a decade ago...The Olive Garden). I'll ever forget that meal. Everything was yellow, except the salad (which was very good). 

Ah, it's Tuesday. How'd that happen? It's all good. One day at a time.