So I've been a-hankerin' to move. Granted I've been slack about actually looking and all, but the hankerin' is still valid. However, tonight as I approached my block, and began looking for my keys my nose twitched ... "Is that (sniff, sniff) ... is that, charcoal?!"
It's not a common smell I sense in my neighborhood. There are aromas yes, stank stuff, too, but never that smell.
Suddenly, as if you'd opened a flipbook, images streamed behind my eyes and I saw bits and pieces of things I'd seen posted around my building, on bulletin boards at the front desk, by my mailbox ...
"What day is it? Is it the 11th? Something happens on the 11th somewhere?"
(Sniff, sniff)
"Didn't they say something, wasn't something posted somewhere about a "special barbecue?" On the 11th was it?"
(Aw shucks! That's today!)
"Hell yeah it is," the succulent aroma that is food grilling said to me as I yanked the front door open.
For about three seconds I sort of half-walked, half-stood looking like Liza Minnelli about to burst into song in Cabaret ... eyes bright, bulging and blinking waiting for my moment, my cue ...
Ah, cue. Barbecue that is. I was just about to produce the jazz hands , and then I caught myself.
Instead I rushed upstairs to wash my hands and dashed back downstairs to the dining room like a bloodhound on a slave scent. "How great," I thought as I sauntered through the dining room. "It's in our garden out back. Lovely."
How delightful it was to walk out into an oasis of fresh-cut grass with blankets strewn, the lawn peppered with patrons.
The grill, my grill (said with that same affection and gruff growlish like drawl that some bruhs use when they say, my nigga), was sizzlin' and my eyes scanned with glee. Just the sight of it nearly induced a jazz run to scoop up a plate.
Things a Southern girl like me adores: BBQ chicken, hot dogs, burgers with the cheese melting slowly as I salivate, baked beans with real bacon, pasta salad, chips, lemonade and ...
shut. yo'. mouth.
These folks is (yes, is) tryin' to make me stay. I mean these jokahs have Eureka'd the key to my tummy and heart. I know that ain't...
WATERMELON!
(Sweet Jesus on the cross I thank ya.)
My plate wasn't even fully loaded before "God is great, God is good" was spoken in my mind as I licked my lips. I was almost read to skip I tell ya - Liza Minnelli's mama-style: watermelon may be my Oz.
And then I sat there roasting what has to be the best din-din I'd ever had at this joint. I'd about given up on the place you see, either skipping it altogether for beer or just loading up on the salad bar. I mean, there's only so much one should do with cauliflower and tomato sauce should never be one of them. But "Tonight, tonight, won't be just any night ..."
“It is good food and not fine words that keeps me alive.” Moliere
*******
Speaking of words though, I thought I should provide an update and let you know that my slacker tendencies persist: I've still not pulled together pieces to shop around to various magazines. However, I am very happy to report that the urge to do so is stronger than it's ever been before, so I consider myself just on the tippy-tippin' edge of a breakthrough of sorts.
For as we all know only too well, someone needs to get rich. And quickly. I'm not talking late-night televised pyramid schemes, I'm talking about meritorious, bonafide means people. Yes, I note that I left out the quickly part there, but that's because, obviously, I've not figured out that part just yet.
Seriously, I'm fidna make like 50 Cent and "get rich or die tryin'."
Allow me:
I be sippin' the rainbow of vitamin-enhanced flava Watchin' Snoop Dogg's "fabulous life" wondering how I'd look in some gatuhs.
Woe is me and po' is I Sippin' on this juice lookin' for my rainbow in the sky.
Thinkin' back on my life I remember Judy Blume And how I musted and musted until my breasts just about busted.
Did I will that into being? Was it all God's work I trusted?
And I would think to myself, what a wonderful world, but It ain't easy having dreams - Spending the days of my life pining on limited means.
*******
Lastly and softly as I leave you :)
My inspiration: Perhaps it would be better not to be a writer, but if you must, then write. If all feels hopeless, if that famous 'inspiration' will not come, write. If you are a genius, you'll make your own rules, but if not - and the odds are against it - go to your desk no matter what your mood, face the icy challenge of the paper - write. - J. B. Priestly
My aspiration: If a man is called to be a streetsweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, here lived a great streetsweeper who did his job well. - Martin Luther King, Jr.
My realization: The act of writing is an act of optimism. You would not take the trouble to do it if you felt it didn't matter. - Edward Albee