Ode to a California rain storm

Hot Flashes

 

 

I am so grateful.

We the people of parched, wind-swept, cracking and downright fried Southern California, our moment has at last arrived. Pull out your greasy pots, your slow cookers, Julia’s beef bourguignon recipe, your best chain saw Texas chili powder, and don your fuzzy slippers because, hey baby, it’s time to get your rainy day groove on.

Hello, Barry White. Can’t get enough of your love, babe.

Oh it doesn’t take much to please me. As of this merry moment, and yes, thankfully Christmas is over, yet I am merry. Because there is liquid gold falling from the sky. To my utter amazement, I spy little droplets of moisture, a delight to thine eyes, and a fine massage for some sorry sycamore trees in my yard.

Guess what, Cal-UnAmerican? I am turning my sprinklers OFF. Neener neener neener. Off, baby. Flipped the switch and thumbed my nose at you rats. Take a hike, you rotten, money-grubbing scoundrels. For one week, you’re not getting any moolah from me, so you’ll probably triple my rates to compensate while giving all your senior vice presidents condos in the Bahamas.

 

 

You’ve been holding me hostage for months, but for one wicked week, I am busting from your vicious grip. In the words of that famous philosopher, Captain Underpants, “Tra-la-lahhhhh!”

Oh rainy day, you’re the first, my last, my everything. I can’t decide which meatloaf recipe to make first. Which potato shall I mash, which bread shall I bake, which roast shall I sear?

Maybe I should just rock it out by sauteing onions, garlic and peppers in my ode to joyful raindrops. What a shock—I can finally cook without cranking the fan to “tornado” levels. Such bliss.

Maybe I’ll just drive around to listen to the sound of wipers swiping merrily across my windows. It’s almost as much fun as watching Justin Timberlake shake his booty.

It’s been so long since the wipers have been used, I was afraid they had locked in place—like my knees—or just rotted in the sun, like my beef jerky complexion. Turns out, those babies are rising to the occasion.

And oh to be away from the grill. Gimme a break, Satan. In the last dry eon, I’ve grilled everything known to man, short of my gym shoes and the dog’s chow.

Nothing has escaped the flames of my burner-bustin’ grill since February. You name it, baby, and it has been toasted and roasted on my grates. Bobby Flay: Take a hike and stop showing me how “easy it is.” I thought I was doomed to a life with singed eyebrows and bangs. Lungs filled with burger gases. Sounds romantic, doesn’t it?

Of course, I do feel bad for those souls in burn areas where floods occur, and I pray for their safety. But in the meantime, I’m slow dancing in my rainy-day groove, stirring the sauce in time to the rhythm of the drops.

I am so grateful.

Elizabeth Kirby has been around a long time—a resident of Thousand Oaks since 1983, whose glass is usually half full if she can find it. Reach her at kirby@theacorn.com or kirby. hanson@verizon.net. To read all her columns, check out her Facebook page.