The turkey is ready and waiting to be cooked. My recipe for brine is simple enough: cover the bird with water, wine, cup and a bit more of kosher salt … and the various herbs and spices you have on your shelf: pickling spice, peppercorns, whatever. Every year we buy a new plastic container from Staples to fit the turkey and then use for storage after the meal has been baked, seared, mashed, and eaten.
On to tomorrow, turkey day, Thanksgiving! 🐔
So far, so good. I have my old MacBook Pro back from the shop, all 17 inches of screen glory in a battered case, but now with a brand-new solid-state hard drive. It’s almost like having a new machine, in that there are a million fiddly bits to get just right again, and it’s also really close to a nervous breakdown because it’s still freezing up and worse. I had some bad moments earlier in the evening that made me think the money spent on the hard drive would have been better spent on the lottery … and then things settled down again.
I will never understand what makes the writing flow and what makes it dry up. Sometimes I just have to let my brain have its stubborn moments of flat silence, but today is not that day. It’s my mother’s birthday, and when she was alive I dreaded this day. Now that she’s no longer here on the earth with me, I wish I could turn back the time machine just to feel a little of that dread again.
The old stories that have been whispered forever on the darkish Alt-Gossip-Celebrities pages since the very beginning of internet time (1994) are coming into the light of the mainstream, and suddenly I’m re-thinking all the bad things I’ve heard about starlets and their strange acting-out shenanigans. I’m especially rethinking a visit we made to one of them, by mistake, when we lived in Los Angeles. The following story is true, but it is also a Blind Item, masked to protect the innocence, which is fleeting.
Today I will share with you some incredible words of wisdom from a great old baseball player – probably the best who ever lived, Satchel Paige. We published an oral history that includes his story with Art Rust, Jr., and in today’s world, only he could repeat the title of the book, so I won’t, but it’s a fascinating set of interviews with then-living members of the old Negro League. Here are Satchel’s rules, which he wrote down: