My Funky Days

I have long believed that every once in a while, we all need a day off, a “time out.” Not a holiday—the Fourth or July or Labor Day won’t do. Just a sudden, unexpected day. I found a quote today from someone named Laura Ding which says, in part, “A day is not a lifetime, a rest is not a defeat…think of it as a quiet, kind retreat.”

About noon yesterday it stuck me that my stomach and I were not in agreement. It could have been anything, from the sushi and black beans I’d eaten over the last few days to a virus or “bug.” By coincidence, I got a column for our neighborhood newspaper from our contributing veterinarian in which he referred to dogs' "food indiscretion." I couldn't help but take it personally. I didn’t know caused by my distress, but I knew I didn’t feel well, and I didn’t feel like working. Deciding to call it a funky day, I took three naps. I did, however, get the neighborhood newsletter off to the designer, write two blogs, proof two chapters of the Alamo book, and do a little work on an upcoming blog tour for Gourmet on a Hot Plate. A funky day but not a useless one.

I went to bed early last night, expecting to feel one hundred per cent this morning. After all, in my mind funky days are one-day affairs. But it was not to be. Neither my stomach nor I were happy overnight, though this morning I went to the grocery with Jordan and then holed up to do some work.

Now, by early evening, I feel almost human and plan to have smoked salmon and cream cheese for dinner—it’s in the fridge and needs to be eaten, and I figure what sounds good for dinner is a measure of my recovery. But I’m still a reluctant cook tonight—maybe that will come back tomorrow.

Today’s bit of trivia: who can remember what Alexandre Dumas wrote? The nineteenth-century French writer was the author of such swashbuckling novels as The Count of Monte Cristo and The Three Musketeers. But who knows what he considered his life masterpiece? A 1500-page work he called Le Grand Dictionnaire de Cuisine. A lifelong cook and gourmand, Dumas considered his book a history of his own gastronomic life. In reality, it’s a curiously unbalanced compendium of trivia—five pages on mustard but a half page on milk, two pages on cheese but five on ambergris, that whale secretion sometimes used for flavoring.

The book was published posthumously three years after Dumas’ death, with a condensed version following. Interested? You can buy a shortened version for Kindle for just under $4.00. Fascinated as I am by all things food-related, I think I’ll pass on this. But I’m interested to know it exists.

Have a great weekend. Don’t waste any of it on a funky day.