Greek Lemons

A gathering storm on the horizon. The sky a darkening shade of gun smoke blue.

It’s family dinner night. In honor of M, I’m making Greek Lemon Chicken with Crispy Smashed Potatoes.

In between the potatoes smashed will be halves of violet red onion and lemon halves. The chicken, drizzled with olive oil from Iberia, will be seasoned with kosher salt, ground black pepper, and a hint of oregano. I’ll roast it at 425 degrees until the potatoes are crisp and the chicken is golden.

On top, I’ll serve it with halved Castelvetrano olives, herbed feta, and chiffonade Italian flat-leaf parsley.

The recipe calls for melted butter, but I’m tempted to just substitute olive oil throughout.

K worried I was irritated with her yesterday, but I assured her it was merely that time of the month. I was grumpy due to lack of sleep and PMS exacerbated by the prevailing circumstances and my insomnia. I am bothered she aired our dirty laundry to the staff, even though it was a non-issue. She is ten years younger. I hardly shy away from conflict, but I hate to ripple streams that need not be stirred.

I’m delving into the cigarettes my father bought me at the beginning of the month. They’re mellow and easy to enjoy, and with higher frequency. I bought the next book in the series I’m reading. I’m dreaming of Illinois.

On the countertop, on the bamboo cutting board, is some Irish cheddar getting to room temperature. Its delightfully crumbly and flecked with salt crystals.

My cramps are coming in earnest.

After the dinner party, I plan on doing a load of towels in the wash. I’m not looking forward to traveling to Boca Raton tomorrow. I just want to go home.