One of My Favorite Baltimorians finally returned from his absurdly lengthy colloquium, so we spent yesterday doing what we do best - mixing beverages unwisely and getting on our high horses about the ways the world pisses us off. It's great fun.
One of our more extensive rants involved Eat, Pray, Love, which he spotted on one of my bookshelves. My mother gave me the book ages ago, and since my mother and everyone else and their mothers recommended it, I finally read it last month. And you know what I think? It's bullshit.
If you're unfamiliar with this condescending turd of a memoir, I'll give you a quick recap. A rich white lady leaves her husband, has a passionate affair, then takes a year to traipse across Italy, India, and Indonesia. By eating mounds of pasta, praying in an isolated ashram, and f*cking a hot Brazilian, the rich white lady achieves greater insight into the loving workings of the universe.
While I don't begrudge anyone the opportunity to spend a worry-free year indulging in all sorts of fabulousness, I do take umbrage at the suggestion that such rarefied experience has shit to do with anything. Hell, the most crotchety among us could probably muster a beatific smile after a year of not worrying about others, money, or work. Seriously, don't piss on my shoes and tell me it's raining.
Rants aside, we got the first fresh beans at the farmers' market last week, so I made spicy black beans and cornbread for dinner. I didn't have any milk or buttermilk for the bread, so I used two cups of half and half and a squeeze of lemon instead. Heart healthy and derlicious. Rumor has it that the first crop of butter beans should be in by next week. Times is good.