Comfort Me With Crudo


There are two sayings I carry around in life. Never look back. And don’t wish away the days. So instead of curling up into a fetal ball and waiting for November 3rd, I bought a hunk of snapper. It was an impulse purchase. Baseball without fans I find as flat as day-old beer. But the palette of a thick hunk of fresh white fish flesh sparked visions of grandeur.

A scotch poured in a purloined airline glass and the music turned up in my Brooklyn galley kitchen, I searched for ingredients. My wife is a a scientist. She cooks by meticulous recipe. I’m a writer. Or an artist. Artiste! Whatever. I like the wide open spaces of a messy pantry. I rifled through the jars and bottles until I happened upon some chili sauce. Inspiration born.

The days seem long even as the hours grow shorter. We are pressed for distraction between work and sleep. I can’t seem to stream more than a handful of episodes of anything before the remote drops from my hand with a clatter and a snore. Five books are scattered across the living room in various states of incompletion. Cooking seems to be the one conclusion I can successfully draw.

It never crossed my mind we’d be contemplating Democracy on the eve of an election. I also never thought chili sauce would work on raw fish. That which I controlled turned out quite well. I’m trying not to count the days until I see the results of the rest.

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