A lot of the songs I sang at open mic last Sunday at the Captain's Club are about loneliness (like "I Don't Need No Doctor"), and sweet revenge, too ("I Put a Spell on You," for instance). We had just started performing again, with mostly new songs. But that progress is now on hold.
Abandoned. Home alone. "I'll Have a Blue Christmas," Elvis croons in my head.
I have to leave the room when he starts telling friends his plans. He will sail the day before Christmas Eve and has no idea how many months he will be gone.
I've been invited for Christmas dinner with friends and our choir will sing two Christmas masses. But January, the longest and dreariest month looms. On my refrigerator the plastic magnet letters spell out the command, "GET MOVIN" (I ran out of G's). The theory is that if I get enough momentum, I won't collapse like a puppet with its strings cut when he sails away. I made an impossibly long list of things I could or should or want to do and while I don't seriously plan to get around to all of them, at least I'll have possibilities to sort through. There's the novel I started in November, still sitting in my computer. There are at least three orphanages in the area that will need volunteer efforts long after Christmas. There's a beautiful malecon here where I can ride my bike. There are places to go dancing with my amiga Alma who also dreams of dancing. And I could bake cookies.
On the subject of cookies, trust NPR radio to offer a scientific slant on the subject. How to keep them from crumbling (add a tablespoon of water to the flour before mixing). How to keep them from turning out limp. Why it's better to mix the dough the night before, if you're into delayed gratification.
The New York Times has a cookie how-to article claiming the butter is the secret: its temperature (65 degrees), quality (fresh), how it's handled (use medium speed on the mixer).
Maybe, if he plays his cards right, the Capt will get a batch to take with him. We'll see...