Balmy Sunday afternoons:
It was a warm and sunny day with a soft cool Atlantic breeze whispering against blue-cold wintery fish-white Capetonian skins. It may have been the first of many a balmy summer day; never mind that we're all cheated out of a salient and boisterous blushing Spring this year.
With a friend over and sunning ourselves in the garden, we made mince of our wine supplies. Sparing one another a beating around olive and wine groves we talked about various things. Good wine never exceeds a limit lower than 12 %. It turned into a true three woman Tête-à-tête as we gradually worked our way through the vines of ordinary life, getting ever mellower as the volumes per bottle dropped and the sun shifted lower in a cobalt blue sky. We sighed with high spirits of a summer-to-be and dreams dancing like ghosts in a heat-wave of ever so distant and unknown horizons.
The day drew to satin soft evening and a world eyed through smoke-colored lenses. out of nowhere the monster of practicality came knocking on the back wooden door and reality winked spitefully at us. Yes, the 'old hag' namely Monday Blues was slowly hobbling back on her old track. Reluctant preparations to be executed: preparing human food, cat-food, dog-food and the tomorrow's dinner. It will be something easy, I decided. There was a chicken wings bag which I have noticed earlier on, ready to pluck out of the freezer, kill with Robinsons Barbeque flavor and consume with salad and a chip. Easy. My feet dragged me to the freezer, pulled out the zipper bag, added lemon juice and garlic gloves and neatly placed it in the fridge. Went to bed. I snored because my tonsils hurt the next morning.
In theory, the three steaming mugs of strong aromatic coffee did not work. Dragging myself into sitting position with extra effort and bleary eyed carefully trying to get my feet neatly and flat on the floor - from the right angle. Eye-lashes merciless heavy and bashed together. A regular occurrence for those who wonder, and a disability I have learned to live with but more often feel I'm dying off. Doesn't help casting the blame on innocent participants of the previous day's frolic or the vines, for the matter. But I wonder about the night cream which may play a foul part in all of this: causing allergies like a dull sore head, irritated tonsils and optical shooting stars. Or maybe it's just straight-forward mal-consumption of too many good things, or African sunstroke.
Nearly a full minute I hang onto the fridge-door for two reasons: Needing a support structure and then the other thing of staring vacantly into the fridge. My facial expression changes and I can feel how my eyes go round in their sockets, the pupils stretching and re-focussing. I peer at something for ages and know that sniffing the air wouldn’t help in this case – something is odd. I establish what it is: A bunch of long and white things that somehow have managed to climb into the zipper bag overnight. They have consumed the chicken wings and defiantly and bulging fat stare back at me now. What are they and how did they get in here – the little gremlins!
Nothing else seemed to have moved or changed, but for the zipper’s previous stock gone and replaced by this...whàt? It was as if my marinated chicken wings had magically turned into a mysterious Saucissson à l'ail and became Porkie-wings instead.
Discussing this strange occurrence later with the other entity who shares the same living space, I came to the shameful realization that this strange sight had been noticed but discreetly ignored in the hope that I would give a full account of how chicken wings could possibly turn out to be fat pork sausages.
Regardless of what it was – turned out a good meal apart from some still persistent seemingly aggravated tonsil troubles.