We have all heard it in a particularly grating voice from our past: “if you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything”. But lately I don’t have anything to say, nice or not, and I especially don’t have anything to write. This leads to poor blog quality, and hence to a dearth of blog entries.
I could tell you about ongoing treatment; the fact that to date, in pursuit of the total annihilation of cancer cells I’ve been cut open, poisoned and burnt, but just in case that’s not enough I’ll soon be in a period of “modification” for five years on a drug called Anastrozole. This drug has many possible side effects, none of which would make the average person burst into song. But, since the clever cancer-fighting people have you start taking it so soon after other treatments have ended, any such side effects could be blamed on the poisoning or the burning or even on advancing age. Conversely, the Burners and the Poisoners can point their fingers at the Modifiers, and vice versa. At least their fingernails are still completely attached (unlike mine), so that when this pointing occurs it looks nice and doesn’t hurt.
But people don’t like to be reminded of cancer, and frankly, I’m getting tired of it– having it, treating it, talking about it– myself. So, no, let’s not talk about cancer treatment.
I could tell you about my recent quick trip to San Francisco. Two full days of glorious sunshine spent among fabulous knitting friends; delicious food, a much-needed respite from the cancer treatments we’re not talking about and escape from my cloudy rain-soaked habitat. But that would only make you jealous, and if you live in the same area as I do, you might immediately book a trip to sunny California, thus creating a crowd of such phenomenal proportions at the airport that small children might be crushed. I would not want to be responsible for the maiming of small children.
Also, having recently switched to an iPhone after my poor Droid died, I apparently did not actually know how to take pictures. I didn’t take an especially beautiful picture of the Golden Gate bridge from Cavallo Point, I didn’t take photos of my friends who were with me, and I didn’t take a photo of the guy and his wife who were riding a rented dirt-bike tandem. However, if I were going to write about this trip, I might mention that when we were in Berkeley at A Verb For Keeping Warm –those last five words actually become a noun when taken together, which could especially entangle your brain if you are on shaky ground when it comes to grammar– a lovely young lady half my age– and therefore much more qualified to take pictures with fruit products–did so (note that I am actually wearing one of my wigs; my real hair would never look that good). And by the way, I’m the one in the middle:
I could write about the Tour de France– not the cycling portion, because that is not my forté– but how I had this crazy idea that while my cycling-fanatic husband watches the race, memorizing each cyclist’s vital statistics, performance metrics, strategy and position like an idiot savant (but hey, he’s my idiot savant!), I will pretend to be Julia Child, but without the Voice. The idea was/is that each day I will prepare a dish from the region where the race’s stage occurs that day. Possibly I could recount to you how it was difficult at first to find food uniquely Belgian, for in spite of the fact that the race is called the Tour de France, the first three days were spent in that country just northeast of France. Possibly you would read about the first day (Saturday), on which I prepared a Belgian pork roast from a recipe purportedly from Liege. It was so-so. Or should I say comme-çi, comme-ça?
If I continued with this story, you would discover that on the Second Day I requested the services of the resident breakfast expert/favorite cyclist, who obligingly made Belgian waffles with fresh strawberries and whipped cream: delicious. And further, on the Third Day, how a plethora of Belgian cuisine appeared on the dinner plate: prosciutt0-wrapped Belgian endive (blah), roasted Brussels sprouts (good), and dark Belgian ale (yum). Frankly, it’s a good thing the bicycles are now moving out of Belgium and into France. But since this is not a food or cooking blog, or even a cycling blog, I won’t bother you with that stuff.
Would you like to hear about my goal of cleaning one kitchen cupboard a day? My recent abysmal scores in Spider Solitaire? The 700-piece jigsaw puzzle we assembled in one day when my mother-in-law visited? I thought not.
So, my apologies for a blank blog entry. Maybe I’ll think of something soon.