The Blues Bring Me Home

The Laundromat Blues were playing, the candles were lit, the smell of biscuits and delta southern food was in the air and al was well.  Sometimes I just need to capture the delta in the house here.  Even if I can’t get the air in the house heavy enough to hold in my hand.  I suspect if I did find a magical way to bring that kind of heat and humidity into the house Beloved wouldn’t cross the door’s threshold.  He just doesn’t seem to appreciate it even if it has the power to pull the most stubborn of wrinkles straight out of your clothes.

He will eat the biscuits though, slathered in butter with honey or jam on them.  Provided the house isn’t too hot.  The rest of the food is a crapshoot with him.  Too spicy and he won’t eat it.  Too heavy and he won’t eat it.  Too salty and he won’t eat it.  Too “weird” and he won’t eat it.  He can’t fathom eating crawfish and sucking the juice out of their heads.  And catfish?  He won’t eat anything that feeds off the bottom of the water.

So biscuits were made, corn, beans with ham hocks, cooked greens and the closet I could get to what I wanted was chicken “fried” chicken complete with white gravy.  Beloved loves chicken “fried” chicken and can’t understand why people might want to do that to a steak.  And since it’s not really fried he will happily consume it, but not the greens or beans.    Which is fine with me because it just means there’s enough for multiple meals for me.

So when Beloved heard the music, smelled the food before he sat at the table he knew it was my way of bring a bit of me to here.  He also knew that home is captured in many different ways, tantalizing more than one of our senses.  And he knew that to say anything about wanting Thai or some other type of food would just lead to a different kind of blues for him.  And as much as Beloved loves to sing, he hates singing the blues!

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