An idyllic afternoon. John and I are on the porch sipping adult beverages while in the kitchen, potatoes are sauteing to accompany one of our long time favorites--fish Russian style. The salads are made, the hard-cooked egg, butter, pimento, parsley topping is ready, the English peas are in a saucepan, ready to cook, the catfish fillets are awaiting their triple dredging--seasoned flour, beaten egg, and panko crumbs.
Time for a little break.
We are reminiscing about the old pre-marriage days when we both had summer jobs and would meet for lunch on Fridays at Cuervo's in Ybor City. Trout Russian was our usual order--a bargain for under $2, and that included soup, salad, Cuban bread, sauteed potatoes, and flan.
We rocked and remembered and talked about the weirdness of being old people with various infirmities and the great good fortune we have to live where we do. And how neither of us wants to end up in a nursing home.
"As a matter of fact," I said, "if I drop dead this minute, I've still had a very good run."
John looked at me and sniffed the air, getting a whiff of the sauteed potatoes.
"Maybe you could wait till after dinner," he suggested.
