The fish's curse

My last post waxed on about my lovely piece of pesto salmon, which was indeed delectable. Well, the next evening, ravenous after a long session at the office and some blog-sorting for Sahara's site, I realized I had not eaten at 10 pm and promptly grabbed the leftover pesto salmon from the fridge. Devoured it cold, with my fingers, in the dark. Still blissful.

Until it hit my intestines. The rest of that week, well, was painful. My husband is probably still laughing about it. Never mind that I have eaten cold salmon in salad all my life. If someone puts a curse on your salmon, you are doomed.

It hasn't scared me off fish in the least. I had barbecued salmon this week (salty), shrimp risotto for lunch one day, and I'll likely have waterzooi for dinner tonight. Let 'em all swim into my welcoming mouth.

Upstream

I broke loose from J's maddening fish ban (he claims a piece of my bland mahi-mahi was rancid this summer) and treated myself to a nice piece of salmon last night. I had forgotten how much I love fish. I just devoured the leftover bit, cold from the fridge, and it was just as yummy.

It's the simplest thing in the world--take a 3" piece of salmon fillet, top it with a teaspoon of pesto and a few bits of parmigiana reggiano, et voila! 25 minutes at 425, uncovered, and bliss shall be yours.

And yes, it's better if it's organic and wild, which it claimed to be. But then again, I bought it at Fairway, which also claimed that its corn was both local and sweet. What a waste of shucktime that was. Snort.

Speaking of snorting, I got the invitation for my 25th high school reunion yesterday. I decided early on (given that I hated the bitches who ran my class) I wouldn't bother until the 25th, and I stuck to that. Not exactly an issue, given that I was never actually invited before. Well, this year I made the cut, and those ninnies are wimping out. It's a Friday night high school football game, for God's sake, and then Saturday they're meeting up at a bar.

In other words, if you're from out of town, which I am, why bother? Long live their little clique of princess bitches. May they all have painful mammograms. Or something.

The kiss of death

No one said being a writer was easy. Truth is, the easiest part of it is the writing. My fingers rest on the keyboard, and then they dance. And I watch the screen, holding my breath to see what comes next. There are people in my life who struggle to get their words on paper, and it's just not something I comprehend.

Perhaps their writing block is something like my inability to play chess or do a cartwheel. No matter how hard I try (although I gave up years ago) my body and mind just do not make the connection. I'm at peace with both. But how can you live without writing?

Since I've started my secretive staff job, I haven't been pitching as much. I've completed some assignments and others have wandered in, gracefully. Earlier this week, an editor contacted me about doing some new work for a national mag. Naturally, I was delighted.

And in a stunning case of deja voodoo, the magazine prompty went under the next day. This is not the first time that's happened. What is it with me? I eat my blueberries. I try not to curse at bad drivers, much. I forgive and move on. And yet my karma swirls out and strangles perfectly good publications.

Something's got to give.