Friday, March 18, 2011.
Zzzzz. Carmelo Care Package.
This daily journal is taking collateral damage from my accident. A guy who spends every day in three rooms of his house, moving around on a walker (even a very spiffy one), while his wife performs the simplest jobs he would ordinarily do for himself (making coffee, for example), does not have very much to report in a diary designed to be read by others. I don't even have a radio show today, again.
Mary Ann left me alone most of the day. She had lunch with Mary Leigh, then they went shopping at Borders Books, whose bankruptcy has forced the closing of both of its stores here. She came home with a new biography of Frank Sinatra called Frank: The Voice. Perfect timing! I just finished the Louis Armstrong book today.
En route home, she stopped at Ristorante Carmelo, where Carmelo insisted on sending me a calzone filled with mortadella, spinach, and cheese. It was so big that I was able to make three meals out of it.
I am not eating a lot. Nor am I burning many calories sitting here in my chair typing, with occasional breaks to roll around on my walker inside my tiny universe. The weather is very pretty, too. I'd love to take a walk in the woods.
None of this is putting me in a foul mood. I enter a zone in which the words just come pouring out for hours on end. I have no other choice. The last time something like this happened was after Katrina, when--stuck in a basement in Maryland--I assembled my entire cookbook in less than two weeks. I hardly ate, and lost a good bit of weight. It's happening now. This is good. For now, anyway.
Mary Ann says I must be careful not to lose my passion for food. I don't think there's much chance of that.
