Most beautiful woman in the world celebrates Bloomsday

My wife, Jami, the most beautiful woman in the world, had a birthday yesterday. I had a day off so I cooked. I fried chicken, made gravy, bought one of those pre-fab salads, and baked a couple of potatoes. I had never cut up a chicken before. I had seen chefs on TV make short work of the bird with a few cleaver whacks. I don't have the cleaver control they do. I used my cleaver to saw and pry. I used a small knife to rip and peel. But when it was done, my primitive efforts were not too messy and accomplished the job. I remembered the time I was little and my nanny and pa convinced me to eat turtle. They told me that a salesman had come by the store with a chicken cut up in a new way. I did do some creative cutting along the back especially.
The kittens circled my feet: offal a thousand tongues to mew.
I may not be able to do much in the kitchen, but I can fry chicken. I am particular about soaking the pieces in buttermilk. Buttermilk keeps the flour on the bird and adds a sizzle when the oil is at its hottest. Buttermilk is the most Southern of drinks - non-alcoholic drinks. But there is a trick I learned from a Missourian, add some crushed pepper to it. It brings out the tone and undercuts the sweetness. If possible find some corn bread (not sweet) and crumble it in a glass before pouring the buttermilk on top. It is a fine dinner substitute.
I only wish that I had learned my grandmother's method of cornbread production (I only remember her advice to put a pinch of flour in the center of the pan). But that's the way cooking is: like things in art, it is being forgotten and rediscovered.
The chicken, unconventionally cut up as it was, turned out good. Jami loved it, as well as the gravy and potatoes.
Jami looks younger every day. Her smile lights up my heart.
I forgot to quote large passages from Joyce on her birthday, since her birthday is Bloomsday. Three years or so ago I was at a bar called James Joyce in Avondale Estates. I happened to be there on Bloomsday and I asked the waiter if he what day it was. He did not. I explained all about Joyce and the events of June 16th, 1904. About Eccles St and Blazes Boylen and Stephen Dadelus. But no flicker of recognition. "I guess we should know about that." "It might prove a good idea," I responded.
I may open a bar one day called the Flann O'Brien - every third policeman gets a pancake. People'll keep coming back and won't know why.