Twelve-Hour Dal

Mattress shopping continues apace. I uncovered a highly pertinent fact, which is that you can’t put a rubber or European Sleep Works mattress on the floor, where we hippies like to put them, without fear of mold, which pretty much means: McRoskey, or continue to risk one’s very life on a Tempur-Pedic, so I went to McRoskey last Saturday. They have only four firmnesses (three if you’re going to omit box springs), making the choice much less of a strain.

My lady acupuncturist doesn’t think there’s anything to fear with the Tempur-Pedic. She has friends who have them and like them. But I already am beset by allergies, so I’d rather not take the chance.

I furthermore think it will be a twin size. Besides the fact that no one wants to be in a relationship with me, I don’t have time for such an undertaking. I was making a schedule for how I’d spend my days if I didn’t have to work; i.e., when I retire, twenty years from now, give or take. At first I thought I’d like to do a little volunteer work, but it turns out I’m not going to have time for that, so I certainly am not going to have time to have a partner, unless said operative will do all the cooking, laundry and cleaning.

Having a bed larger than a twin is tantamount to having a guest bedroom, which is silly given the size of my apartment. I sleep clinging to the very edge of my full-sized mattress, anyway. Having a twin-sized mattress also means I will be able to have my keyboard (i.e., piano) out all the time, which is currently impossible.

Sleep Train will exchange your mattress or take it back within 90 days, but I’ve noticed they get a bit terse when discussing returns, so I have decided to return the Tempur-Pedic and see the money back in my checking account before buying the McRoskey, regarding which I can find nothing but raves online.

Accordingly, I have just ordered an air mattress and foot pump for the interim period, for a reasonable sum. I’ll probably sell it on Craigslist when I’m done with it, assuming Hammett hasn’t finished it off. Yes, I can very much picture myself sinking inexorably to the carpet in the middle of the night amid a loud hissing sound while Hammett smiles in innocent kitten pleasure.

Once I have my keyboard out, I can get back to trying to find a stand which is a bit lower or a seat which is a bit higher. If Dr. Neve could see the relationship of my hands to the surface of the keys, she would disapprove. That’s the same Dr. Neve who said of musical performance, “It’s OK to be scared. It’s just not OK to act scared.”

I lately bought an Art Blakey record (see link that starts with “Go here”) for the Horace Silver tune “Nica’s Dream,” but there is another tune of his on it, “Ecaroh,” (that’s “Horace” backwards) which made every part of my body twitch independently.

I called Tom up and played the first part for him, and wished I hadn’t so recently called my mother to tell her what my lady acupuncturist thinks about coconut oil so I could have played the beginning of “Ecaroh” for her instead.

Last weekend I tried a couple of new recipes: Dal, from Sundays at Moosewood Restaurant, which came out great, and a recipe for spinach fettuccine with arugula and tomatoes from Deborah Madison’s Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone, which was awful: labor-intensive, lacking in flavor, and downright gritty, I suppose from the arugula, which took ages to clean as it was.

However, reheated in coconut oil and mixed with a liberal amount of grated parmesan, it’s pretty good, as are most things, unless they’re sweet, in which case fry them in coconut oil and coat with chocolate sauce.

I had been under the impression that I hate arugula, but it turns out it has a lovely, nutty flavor; therefore, it’s cilantro that I hate.

Afterwards, I couldn’t help reflecting that I had spent, including shopping, twelve hours to produce about five cups of dal, but I guess there’s no going back now to the pot-of-beans-and-pot-of-grains-for-the-week approach.

I’ve been fretting some about who will care for Hammett when I’m out of town, which is just upon me, only about eight weeks away. Tom would be happy to do it and cared for Thelonious for years without incident, but Hammett is zippier than Thelonious. Just yesterday I took some recycling out and came back to find his front half sticking eagerly out of a window I thought he couldn’t get to.

I decided I would feel most at peace with professional cat care. Friends recommended someone they have been very happy with, but to come to my neighborhood, she charges $27 a visit, probably because she has to hire a car and driver, since parking is out of the question, so I called Mission Pet Hospital and they recommended a woman they love who charges a bit less.