...but that doesn't mean I want to drink it.
Cajun's only Spanish word is 'agua.' She knows it well and laps it up. Literally and figuratively. Why can't/won't I? I filled her bowl tonight. It must hold an easy half a gallon. It's gone in a day. So is half the river. I, a cognizant human, could hold in my hand (with nothing running between my fingers) what I drink in any 24-hour period.
Pete argues that we get lots of our daily liquid requirement from things like milk (he drinks it, I do not), juice, the juice from fruit, etc. etc. I think if a rang dry everything I eat in a day it would not amount to 16 ounces of water, total.
We're told to consume six 8-oz. glasses of water a day. Huh. My water consumption is highest in the middle of the night — there on my bed stand is a Poland Springs sports bottle. I like these because if I swat it with my pillow and knock it off, it won't spill. Further, in the darkest dark of night, I can take a surreptitious swig without having to unscrew, then screw back on the top. Anyway, because it is there and because if I am thirsty the alternative is an entire seventeen-step flight of stairs away, I drink the stuff.
Someone asked me the other day — we were exploring the same subject — if I just didn't like water. Like water? Is that an option? To actually like it? I believe I have never given that question a single thought in my entire life, one way or the other. Do I like water? Do I dislike water? No. And no. Still, it is not, and never has been, my beverage of choice.
Tonight, running away from the Halloween tricksters as we were, at dinner at a nice restaurant in Chestnut Hill, the topic came up again. There before each of us was a glass of — what? You guessed it. Water. We never serve water with our wine. Or as a beverage for lunch. Indeed Concord tap water is so horrendously chemical in flavor I avoid it at all costs. Some time ago, because of my sincere aversion to drinking the local water, Pete bought me a Brita water filter. I use it to fill my night-time sports bottle. And to make iced tea.
I won't drink the tap water in Nantucket either. In the interest of full disclosure, I admit straight off that I won't drink the island water not because it doesn't taste good (it tastes great) but because I have a paranoid theory about the old town pipes and heavy metals infiltrating the aquifer. It goes beyond that but I won't bore you with it here. Suffice it to say, it's a folly of mine.
And for all that, if the invitation is to jump into the water, I'm there. Just don't expect me to drink the stuff.
Truffle: The Sunday New York Times delivered to the door. For the first time in Concord. This goes beyond what it might at first seem. It's more than a bum leg. Or laziness. Or even convenience. Ink black on my fingers is like flour on the hands of a cook. Up to my elbows in my milieu.
Quote of the day: "I always wanted to be Peter Pan, the boy who never grows up. I can't fly, but swimming is the next best thing. It's harmony and balance. The water is my sky." (Clayton Jones)