I sneak up on risk now, take a long look, consider, expect clarity, bring some wisdom to bear. Not like the old days …
With the thermometer at 40 degrees–an improvement over last week–and the sun moving around and coming up where I can see it, I’m feeling like a Paul Prudhomme gumbo.
The rue’s the risk. It was Wynton Marsalas who said, Without a good rue “you might have yourself a killin’ soup, but you ain’t got no gumbo.”
The rue scares me to death. I fret the whole time it’s cooking. I stir and sweat and count the minutes. I feel the tension in my shoulders, my face, my stomach. You know: the places in the body where emotions live. One second too long and the fire alarm trips, the firemen arrive in the big red truck and say the usual: Oh, you burned dinner. They don’t get the risk of the rue.