Sunday Morning Going Up

(with apologies to Johnny Cash)

I woke up laughing this morning. It was still dark, that hushed pre-dawn quiet when it feels like the world is holding its breath, and nothing is moving outside my snug warm bed. I was tightly wrapped in K's arms, my back against his chest with his beard against my cheek. He was already awake so he laughed too when I burst into laughter and woke myself up from a ridiculous dream I was having.

We had warm slow morning sex and then, sufficiently perked up, bundled up against the chill and went out just as the sun was beginning to lighten. After a stroll down Hawthorne we read the paper over milky hot coffee at a cheerful little cafe, then stopped by the Waffle Window for a $4 pumpkin pie waffle. This dense, crispy confection was sprinkled hot with just enough sugar to enhance the crunch, topped with a thick slab of cold fresh pumpkin pie filling, scooped with real whipped cream and drizzled with caramel. Much more dessert than breakfast, but what the hell. It's a special Sunday.

By the time we got home, the sun was shining so we took a stroll to the produce stand for a quick restocking, and picked aromatic wild rosemary along the way home. Now it's noon and I'll be writing by the window on this chilly, bright autumn afternoon... after we dip our grilled cheese sandwiches (Tillamook sharp cheddar on whole grain flaxseed bread) into leftover tearjerker-spicy lentil rice soup.

Happy Sunday. It's beautiful to be in Portland.

Found a successful reward system.

For the second year in a row, I'm doing National Novel Writing Month. I'm behind. I spent most of last year behind too and still finished my 50,000-word first draft in a month, so all is not lost, but I need to catch up with my slow-going novel. Last night I was trying to write, but I was distracted. K was sitting across the room in all his sexiness, reading on the couch, and I just couldn't focus.

So I got up and climbed on him, and he put his book down. We made out and eventually that turned into the kind of good hard breast-groping grind they never let me do in Portland. And yeah, I'm easy - before long I was shuddering with the kind of orgasm that leaves me completely limp. And there we are with all our clothes on. So I go in for another kiss...

And he pulls back, twists my arm behind my back and holds me away. "What's your word count?" he whispers, sotto voce.

"About twenty-four thousand."

He twists my arm a little tighter and slides me off his lap. "Get to twenty-six thousand," he says, "and maybe we'll see if you've earned it." A minute later he's back in his book and I'm back at my computer, furiously tapping away.

I got to 26,006 words very quickly, and it's not bad what I wrote. He did take me to bed after that and plowed me until I screamed. I love it when he makes me scream... not that it's that hard for him to do.

We'll have to see if that works to get my word count up tonight, although I do have to go hit up some clubs and audition for a new place to work tonight. Fuck this economy, right? Anyone who's reading this, go out tonight and throw down some money on your friendly local strippers. We're taking a much harder hit than the auto and bank industries, and nobody's bailing us out. If you don't go tip the naked ladies there will be no more naked ladies, so get out there and spice it up.

Sweet Potato Croissants

This morning for breakfast I made these sweet potato croissants and sliced up a pink pearl apple and a gala apple to go with them. I think I overworked the dough so they were kind of dense like rolls, but they tasted delicious, especially fresh out of the oven. A little fresh-ground coffee with hazelnut milk starts the day off right.

In other news, looking for a new strip club as my one shift a week at Portland's awesomest titty bar isn't quite paying the bills. Auditions, auditions... ugh! Gotta keep eyes on the prize though, so that next year I can be in my own little cottage with my organic vegetable and herb garden and a couple of chickens. I've been following the urban chicken movement and am really looking forward to adding a few hens to the family, yes, smack-ass in the middle of Portland. That's why I moved to Portland; this town is kooky enough that doing that kind of thing isn't even kooky. We have organic chef strippers who vote for Ron Paul and write novels. Well, one, anyway.

I recently picked up a copy of Jamie Oliver's new book, "Jamie At Home." Since I don't have a TV I have not been familiar wth the Jamie Oliver phenomenon, but right now I want to have his babies (sorry, hubby). This book - if you have ever even remotely considered the "delicious real food vs. tasteless corporate factory food" dichotomy then this book is for you. I want to buy a copy for everyone I know. What the hell, the holidays are coming. If I can get a job I just might.

I'm back for real this time.

Again with the Associated Press thing. I've missed this blog for the past few months and finally decided there's no time like the present to return to it. Especially for a blog dedicated to the best of home-cooked food and sex, because today is all about both.

My husband is coming home after over a month away. He travels for work a lot, and whenever he comes home he gets whatever he wants to eat. This time he asked for a steak, and I'm really proud of the menu I've assembled. London broil has been marinating for five days in a mix of balsamic vinegar and A-1 with toasted sesame oil and various spices; tonight I'll spread it with a paste I made last night out of freshly roasted garlic and olive oil before I broil it to medium-rare. I'm also mashing sweet potatoes with hazelnut milk and toasted sesame oil, and a baby spinach salad with toasted hazelnuts and dried cranberries. Glass of shiraz will round it out - at least for me, he may want Jameson's on the rocks with his, whatever he wants.

For dessert I whipped up a maple pumpkin pie with a from-scratch whole wheat butter crust. The top cracked; I think I cooked it about five minutes longer than I should have, but it should still taste good. I also made maple whipped cream to go on top, and I have a lovely chilled 1997 port to enjoy with dessert. I think for dessert we should make a fire in the fireplace and kick back in our jammies. I have a new long satin black nightgown with a matching robe and it makes me feel like Rita Hayworth.

I think after dessert we'll break out a Lush massage bar and see where that goes.

Before dinner though, there's a bit of catching up to do. I sense BDSM in my immediate future. He's taking a very Dominant role of late, which I love since I tend toward the very submissive in my relationships with him. I used to be a professional Dominatrix myself but I feel so much more content in the submissive role with my husband. And I can tell I'm definitely in for some punishment. Hopefully the promise of dinner will keep it from being too bad.