So with the Top Chef finale approaching Thursday night, I am gonna blow if I don’t talk about it so here’s your warning to snooze me for thirty days if you don’t want to read any spoilers today and for the next several.
For now, I am just going to say one thing.
Maybe. I may say more.
Ready?
Weeks ago in a post I made here, I predicted the winner would be Dawn.
I’m now positive I am right. So is Julie, who has been watching along with me.
Omg, I’m going to hate when this season ends Thursday night. It’s all Julie and I talk about.
Because I am a dork, I follow most of the chefs on Instagram, and I am also almost positive Chef Shota and Chef Sara are an item.
Gosh I hope so.
They’re both adorable.
Anyway, because I am distraught about Top Chef ending this week, I watched my taped episodes of Master Chef, which just started a few weeks ago.
Oyyyyyyyy.
It’s like watching Biden v Trump, comparing the two shows. One refined and educational, the other a hot trashy mess.
Master Chef would like you to believe that one of the fifteen best home chefs in America is a young lady named Autumn with enormous breasts who has never touched, cooked, or eaten fish.
She somehow had one of the top three fish dishes of the night.
It was monk fish, yet.
One of her fellow competitors is Michael, a circus freak of a body builder who says he is a “life coach specializing in sex.”
You know I had to Google him for creds.
Zero, zilch, nada.
Yeah, I don’t think I will be watching this year. It will sully the kumbaya memories of this season’s Top Chef.
So in other news, I’m going to Seattle a week from today. I’m ecstatic about that on so many levels it’s not even funny.
I forget what normal life feels like.
I think Gary does, too.
This 24/7 togetherness stuff for sixteen months is a little much, I feel like a loony agoraphobic.
Uh…if the shoe fits…
And I’m just a little over the moon about seeing Julie, too 😜
My daily writing is going really well. Things took an interesting turn last week when I realized once again, I wasn’t exactly writing fiction. The problem was, I was trying to.
And I was struggling.
Many years ago, I gave a couple chapters of the first draft of Daddy Left Me Alone with God to a writer friend for his opinion.
His reply?
“That’s very nice, Rob. Now how about reaching down into your gut and writing the real story.”
Of course I never forgot that, even years after Daddy was published, because I wish I could have rewritten it and told the whole, true story.
I thought about my friend’s comment again recently when that agent praised my writing but told me I didn’t break any new ground.
Anyway, for what it’s worth, I started writing something very real, so real it required less than a morning to set up an outline. I’ve been averaging 2000 words a morning which for once I’m editing as I go, though only for words used twice and clunky sentences here and there.
It feels mahvelous.
I’m actually going to write this thing.
Maybe some of us are not meant to write fiction. I was so fucking happy last year, writing my daily quarantine posts. It was natural organic writing from the heart, every morning the words flowed out of me.
It’s happening again.
I still want to go back to work a day or two in September, though. I have Gary kinda talked into doing the same. I saw Ardmore Music Hall is looking for all kinds of help, if that’s still an option this fall, I could see him doing that.
I just think it’s good for our brains and relationship to have somewhere else to go once or twice a week.
I miss the cerebral workout of legal writing. A lot.
So what else. Let’s see, Jake is hanging in there but we have to schedule an appointment with a dermatologist to see why his ear infection keeps coming back.
Yay.
Okay, if I’m talking about the dog’s ears, it’s time to end this post. I thought I had all kinds of stuff to report, either I just went brain dead or maybe my life really has become nothing but thoughts of Top Chef this week.
Oh, well. Whatever.
Onward!
