i like margarine

Granny, oh Granny, what ya doin’ by the kitchen sink?
She said, “I’m just makin’ up some pimento cheese”

— the prophet vic chesnutt

—

I officially retired today, causing me to worry for the first time that we may starve. I probably should have accounted for food when calculating the budget. Oh, well.

But fear not.

My new hobby is watching golf, which is much easier than playing golf and avoids the need for wearing peach golf shirts. And that’s what led me to the Masters coverage this weekend, and the answer to our menu woes:

Pimento cheese sandwiches. Lots and lots, and lots, of pimento cheese sandwiches.

Longtime readers will recall our tiny clan’s fascination with pimento cheese, a habit acquired in West Texas, along with using “fixing to” in daily conversation and remembering the Alamo. Yes, Mo really said that about the Alamo’s cannon. Citizenship revoked.

With that in mind, we’re fixing to devise a new menu.

The math is pretty simple. We will find a polka band on its way to Georgia (this worked in “Home Alone,” so it must be doable) and hitch a ride. Mo loves her polka music.

Once there, it’s just 140 bucks to get into the Masters for one day.

And then.

And I’m not making this up.

Pimento cheese sandwiches there are sold for $1.50.

ONE DOLLAR AND FIFTY FREAKING CENTS FOR THE DELIGHTFUL GOODNESS OF PIMENTO CHEESE HEAVEN!!!

Figuring I’ll need two a day after Mo leaves me for the oompa guy in the polka band, that’s $730. Combined with the cost of the ticket, the total is $870 for a year’s food. With money left over for a Medium Chocolate Frosty.

The beauty of pimento cheese on white bread is that it lasts forever, if you don’t mind the side effects of expired mayo, and I do not.

If you told 21-year-old Gary that we could get by for entire year of eating for just three bucks a day, he would have pointed out we were already doing that back then with Jack-in-the-Box tacos. 21-year-old Gary was a smart ass. No pimento cheese for him.

Yes, Kate, if there are extras you’re welcome to bring peanut butter to add on for your signature pimento cheese and peanut butter extravaganza. But maybe wait until after the first installment of The Fifi Chronicles.

So that’s the plan. There IS a slight problem only because the Masters just ended, so we’ll have to wait a year. Is Jack-in-the-Box still open all night? Tacos with peanut butter could work.

Retirement is easier than you might think …

You can never have too much sky. You can fall asleep and wake up drunk on sky, and sky can keep you safe when you are sad. Here there is too much sadness and not enough sky. Butterflies too are few and so are flowers and most things that are beautiful. Still, we take what we can get and make the best of it.

— Sandra Cisneros

 Let’s head out west
where nobody can text us

— the prophet slaid cleaves

—

Dear Fifi:

Hi. You don’t know me. But then I guess you don’t really know anyone yet, other than the lady who yells when you do your morning aerobics.

I’m no good at figuring out how people are related. I’m still not sure exactly what relation I was to Uncle Bob, other than he wasn’t my uncle and his name wasn’t Bob. Whatever. He had great running shoes.

I suspect that’s how it will be with us. I will be the mysterious relative in a faraway land, rarely mentioned other than people muttering in hushed tones and sadly shaking their heads, with occasional kudos to my retro Nike Waffle Trainer sneakers. Yes, I will put them in the will for you.

I’m guessing you didn’t see the eclipse yesterday, given your obstructed view. We didn’t either. We were in the wrong place, having abandoned Tejas because they lack proper Sonoran dogs and cactuses with arms. And then Mo wouldn’t share her corn flakes viewing box, and it seemed easier just to watch it on TV. I hope your birth is televised. Please use Netflix, because that’s the only Fancy Network we have, at least until Anne gets busted for sharing. (Dear Netflix: just kidding.)

I likely won’t be around when the next eclipse rolls through in 20 years or so, but you will. You’ll be just about hitting your stride then, setting out on a new life, encumbered only by your too-big waffle trainers. I’m sorry I’ll miss it. Also, I’ll miss those Waffle Trainers.

The years go by so quickly. It’s good to have a celestial phenomenon now and then to keep things in perspective.

If I could give you some advice, it would be simply: You have a bright future, but never forget to pack your protective glasses, just in case. Icarus and all, you know. But mostly, never pass by a Wendy’s without getting a Medium Chocolate Frosty. Nothing eclipses a Medium Chocolate Frosty. Trust me on this one.

You got lucky, Fifi. When you make your triumphant debut, you’ll find two pretty spectacular people on the welcoming committee.

As you get older, they’ll tell you stories about chain saws and national parks and how a happily ever after started on a dance floor with a dog and a Slaid Cleaves song that manages to come up with SIX words that rhyme with Texas. It’s a pretty good story. And a fine song.

But that can wait. All you really need to know right now is that you have a great-uncle who’s not really great at all, and a shirt that remembers your beginnings, when two crazy kids took a big leap in a little Oregon town on a wooden dance floor, uncertain what the future would bring. As it turns out, it brought you. It’s still a good Hallmark movie, if Hallmark movies allow flannel shirts.

Anyhow, welcome to the world soon. I hope you’ll think of me and hum that Slaid song as you watch the eclipse in a couple of decades. The shirt may not fit by then. Sorry.

Happy adventures, Fifi. May your trails be free of rattlesnakes and Republicans. In the words of the prophet Calvin, “It’s a magical world … Let’s go exploring!” But maybe finish preschool first.

p.s. as soon as you’re old enough, please send me the pig lamp. Thanks.

—


I love this state, you know I do
But the best thing in this state is you
I love you even more than I love Texas