After yesterday’s epic journey to Dupont Circle, as capped by a sweaty evening lawn-mowing session prior to a droning fascist’s photo-op in DC, which I neglected to view, Friday almost surely was going to be a letdown.
Consequently, I cooked a soup bowl cabbage roll recipe.
Dessert has been two bottles of Sierra Nevada Oktoberfest. Am I drunk yet? My assessment is that the past years’ collaborations with breweries in Germany were better than this year’s solo journey, presumably owing to COVID; it still tastes good, just not as expressive Teutonically as those before.
I continue to marvel at my diminished alcoholic beverage consumption during pandemic times. The key point to this reduction is solidarity in our household, which is to say that we have not been dining and drinking out. This means all my work at the pub is done before the doors open, and in turn, without the social aspect of drinking with others, I’m good for a beer, glass of wine or mixed drink, and seldom have a second one.
Well, before tonight.
Since mid-March, I’ve been intoxicated twice, maybe three times. Days pass, and I don’t even consider drinking. You’d have to go back to high school to find a parallel. This strange dryness of being is amazing, and I’m not sure what to make of it.
If you’re just tuning in, and wondering where the stridency of tone has gone, trust me — it’s still there, albeit muzzled. I’m presently trying to stay out of the reprisal zone enforced by my town’s self-appointed community pillars.