Someone, somewhere, is injecting bleach. Just saying. There's always one.
I cannot currently splurge on a night out at Hanna's steakhouse here in RSM. There's takeout, but it's not the same. There are also takeout cocktails in mason jars, which is interesting because the cocktail is such an easy DIY thing. I think the fact that this exists speaks to the normalcy we all crave, where a steady handed bartender crafts a concoction of this and that before your very eyes. But the thing about the takeout cocktail is that you can't step inside to watch a guy like Dave Shank, perhaps one of finest bartenders I've ever witnessed (and this, coming from a former bartender), do the pouring and stirring and shaking. They just hand you a mason jar at the door. Frankly, anyone could be pouring that cocktail. Might just be the woman answering the phones. Anyway, not my problem right now. I'm stockpiling beer for the apocalypse. Enough said about that.
Back to steaks. In lieu of Hanna's, Callie and I took a drive to El Toro Meats the other day to purchase some choice ribeye for grilling here at home. This is not to be confused with El Toro Taqueria in Costa Mesa, where we visit each weekend for carnitas tacos as part of our new tradition of a long Saturday drive. You haven't had your tires rotated until you've had one of those spicy tacos.
I mention all this because I have decided to have a writer's retreat. People pay big money to travel to the Tetons or the South of France to write in seclusion. I am reminded of the scenes from Love Actually where Colin Firth rented a lakefront home in Portugal to write his novel. Seen from that pre-virus vantage point, it was romantic — solitude, silence, a splendid view to inspire the words. I always wanted to do that. And now I am. My backyard is quiet, scenic, and mostly a place of solitude — unless Django comes to relieve himself nearby. Instead of hunkering down in my office, which is getting a bit stale and depressing these days, I work outside on a small oak table. Due north are the slopes of Mother Saddleback for a scenic view. The bougainvillea are in bloom to my right. The Yeti is loaded with iced beverages of all varieties for quick refreshment. And, like last night, I can stroll over to the barbecue and grill a nice ribeye when I knock off for the day. Sure, it's just my backyard, but it's time to flip perspective. This is my writer's retreat. It comes with the mortgage, and when I look at it like it's someplace special — because, really, I love my backyard — there's a certain feeling of escape, as if I'm indulging in some crazy luxury in a lush romantic setting, all in the name of creativity.
There's no bleach, of course. That shit'll kill you. But it's my Portugal, and I couldn't be happier.