I'll Come For Your Just-OK Tofu

I really should follow a recipe

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I fell asleep this afternoon listening to a recording of an interview I did in November for a story I’m writing now where I talked too much. I don’t set out planning to talk too much but I think if I can say interesting relatable things the person will be inspired to say more stuff. This isn’t true, it never works, but I keep doing it.

When I woke up I saw a text had come in from the Badger an hour before saying he would come by for dinner. I forgot that I had told him this afternoon, when he came by to take a call on the porch, that he should come eat if he wanted. It was 5:30, he was coming at 6:30.

It was not a big deal, just me making food for myself and the Badger eating food because there would be more food that I could eat and T. was not here, and neither was my little Ruthie. She was with him at work, he sent me a photo of her framed by a mug handle.

The house was quiet and the air still and gray. The Badger showed up on time and stayed outside because I just had Covid and someone he knows has it too. He had just played disc golf and said it went alright though he could have played better, but he still had fun. “There’s a beer in the fridge I left a long time ago,” he said.

"Are you sure it’s the same one?” I asked. He said he thought it was. I wasn’t having a drink because true story, my legs still actually NO JOKE hurt a few days out from Covid. I think it might be going away, I seriously hope so, but I’m not drinking or doing anything “inflammatory.” I haven’t drunk a lot since I got Covid and once you get used to the habit of not having a drink at the end of the day you can actually learn to calm yourself down, on your own, it seems. I was so sad this morning. My legs hurt so much. I did a lot of work and felt better because doing something always feels better than sitting there feeling bad, and I’m not saying that in a chipper way, I’m saying it in a “what is wrong with people” way, but not because I think I’m a bad person just that — who cares. Now I have less work to do, yippee, and I hope my legs are done having Covid and can join the rest of my body.

I made tofu and salad, I did a mediocre job at both. Still, it was fine, rice and tofu out of a bowl with a can of diet ginger ale is good stuff. My Fake Son and my friend Jackson are so much better at making tofu than I am though. It’s sad.

Badger told me about a book he read with no punctuation. I said fuck those no punctuation people. I read him a paragraph from a P.G. Wodehouse story which wasn’t even that good, but it did have well-placed periods and commas. I told the Badger how I was hoping I was truly done eating animals because I saw a sad photo of two cows. “I really don’t ever want to eat another cow again,” I said. “They just look so much like my Ruthie, with their sweet eyes.” I tried not to cry and I succeeded. My Fake Son was parking their truck and we waved and they came over and told us about all the people they know who have Covid. We all went for a walk around the block and talked about times we’d projectile vomited. My Fake Son said they’d done it once looking into their friend’s eyes, their story was the best.

Badger said, “Is that a decorative dogwood,” about our neighbor’s tree, and I said, “Emotional Rescue,” and they said “What?” and I said, “Decorative dogwood sounds like emotional rescue, like, “I’ll come to your Decorative Dogwood.” No response. “It’s a Rolling Stones’ song,” I said. No one knew or cared. I cared. I wondered if Mick Jagger had ever actually come to anyone’s emotional rescue, like if someone had ever said with tangible relief, “Oh thank God, Mick’s here, finally, I can unburden myself to a true friend!”