No place to go, no promises to keep

Flash back 20-some-odd years. I am standing on the front step waving good-bye as Claire and the boys pack off to California for a weeklong visit with Nanny and Grandpa. Moments later I am back inside and the stereo is cranked, the wine uncorked, and the menu deliberations begun: "First the eggplant parmesan, or do I start with the chicken okra gumbo?" Jeffy's Seven Days of Single-Dadness are on!

I recall this as I bid sawat dii khrap to Lian and her son, Dao, who are catching a night bus south for a family gathering in her hometown of Na San -- visiting her elderly mother, joining with siblings to honor dead relatives, various Buddha stuff. I volunteer to watch the room while she's away.

Click! Off goes the moronic, annoying Thai TV sitcom. Click and click! On go the ceiling fan AND the freestanding portable fan. (I needs me some Mighty Wind.) And at sunup, the breakfast expedition to San Pakoy Morning Market is a solo venture.

Clockwise from left: Stumptown coffee, fresh mango,
 patongco and jok moo.

This morning by unanimous consent we want jok moo, a hot, thick soup of boiled rice and minced pork topped with shredded ginger and chives. Into my takeaway soup the vendor lady cracks a raw egg, which will soft-boil on the walk home. To go with the jok moo I buy a fresh mango and a bag of greasy X-shaped fried dough treats called patongco. And you know what? I eat them all. Because I can!

It is Friday night, clients are happy, the weekend is wide open, and a big bowl of prawns and calamari is marinating for tonight's stir-fry with long beans and noodles. Sometimes it's nice to have someone to share it with. Tonight is not one of those times.