After The I Hate to Cook Cookbook (1961) How scattered I am: post-spouse, with company coming; in Florida in my earthquake gown, in my eelskin slingbacks and electric mink stole. I tried to make puff paste with sweating hands; butter in the KitchenAid, covered in Everglaze; apocalyptic looking and no one to stall. Now egret feathers and alligators and gas are gone; polar fur coats are all vintage or bottle jobs and the corn is crawling even in the Bracken and the Glades. But I'm up and dressed, at least; I make of this doctored lambskin a dish of myself: big hair, lippy, a little bit lush, maybe even horny. I'm going to breathe in and replate the take-out again, shake cocktails. I'm going to spread swampy, an idea, a mangrove of the air.