GRAY NYMPHO MONOLOGUES

Let Me Gloat

2025 may be the year of reciprocation after all . . .

Ever-evolving trays of wheat grass and alfalfa sprouts in my window . . . one of my healthy winter distractions.

After the cranky tracks I been tootin’ along, recent months, the last couple days made it up to me, everything that’s gone haywire in life.

Thank you, God. Thank you so much.

I will think a thought, not actually praying to God for anything to happen . . . but then it happens minutes after I think it. This has been happening so much lately. It surprises and delights me each time.

I won’t bore you with the gory backstory on Roberto. Suffice to say, going to his house last night was a long shot, indeed.

I asked the perfect person to cook me dinner.

For twenty years, this guy was a chef in Monterey, our nearby culinary metropolis.

He didn’t begin cooking until I arrived, so I was entertained by watching him scurry around his cluttered kitchen, pans sizzling, billowing with stove-fan roaring, as he prepares carne asada with interesting twists and sides. Like pupusas from El Salvador, Roberto’s native Central American country, rather than the tortillas one often gets with Hispanic food.