It's hot outside. Of course it is, it's hot everywhere except for wintry South Africa, where Willem is refusing to talk to us until it gets warm enough to touch the computer keys without contracting frostbite. I have it on good authority (well, sort of good authority, Malabarista) that they're keeling over from those unfamiliar rays in sunny Belfast, where the thermometer has hit a whopping 20 degrees Celsius. How can they stand it? Lanzababy is feeling the pressure, as well. She said the other day that she was so overcome with the heat that she wasn't sure whether a guide entry about 500-pound spiders was fact or fiction. If your content gets reassigned to the wrong workshop, folks, just blame the fact that the editors haven't figured out that tinfoil hats aren't sufficient protection against sunstroke. (The term 'baked potato' springs to mind.)

Over here in the Colonies, things are getting serious, as they are wont to do this time of year. Right now, the mercury outside my air-conditioned cocoon reads exactly the same as body temperature. There's a thing called a 'heat index'. I'm afraid to look at it. Any hotter, and we're gonna start cooking. With solar power.

This led to Elektra's and my latest adventure, which I'm going to tell you about. I swear to the absolute veracity of this – on a stack of Mark Twain's collected works.

Caveat Lector. (No, not him. No cannibals were involved in the making of this story.)

The other day, the sun rose. It did not rise reluctantly, as I did, peeping shyly from beneath the patterned quilt. No, it thundered up in a blaze of glory, declaring with its brightness the intent to bless all of North Carolina with its beneficent rays, thus facilitating photosynthesis everywhere and enhancing the revenue of the fizzy-drinks people.

By the time I had rubbed my allergy-gummed eyes and put on suitable bathing gear, Elektra (a morning person, though we love her, anyway) was packed and ready to head for the pool.

'I thought we'd have breakfast al fresco,' she said. I refrained from Italian jokes. I refrained from wondering aloud where in tarnation she'd learned that expression. I dutifully grabbed a) my towel, b) my pool pass (it's a peachy-keen blue rubber wristband with 'Property of Davy Crockett Estates' stamped on it), and c) my house keys, and followed her out, stopping only to comfort the forlorn Ariel, who hates it when we go swimming, as the management quite unreasonably (in his opinion) bars dogs from the pool area. Then we took our picnic hamper to the poolside. The management doesn't care if you eat by the pool, as long as no glass is brought through the gate. Safety regulations.

We had the pool to ourselves, as usual in late morning, when the sun is too high for any but the most ardent sunbathers and people like us who actually swim around. While Elektra unpacked her gear, I moved the lawn chairs to a position in the shade of the umbrella. There is nothing quite like coming out of a pool and lowering your posterior onto a thatched piece of partially melted plastic. The experience can leave scars both visible and psychic.

As Elektra points out, the purpose of h2g2 is to provide a guide to life, the universe, and everything. It is in this spirit that I offer you the following detailed description of what happened next.

First, Elektra wiped off an area of the hot concrete, about a metre square. On this surface she plopped about a tablespoon of 'I Can't Believe It's Not Butter™', waiting until the semifaux dairy was sputtering nicely. Then, employing those little rings we've learned to use since our days as short-order cooks (who says a college education is worthless?), she cracked open two eggs and added salt. (We prefer our eggs of the large, brown variety. I always check in the store to make sure they aren't pre-cracked, as I consider this messy and dangerous.) While the eggs were cooking in the hot fat, she slapped on a couple of rashers while I buttered both sides of some (gluten-free) bread. This I left to toast in tinfoil (of which I always have plenty).While we waited for our breakfast to cook, I took a quick dip in the pool, which was about as warm as I usually like bathwater. As Elektra will tell you, that's about 2 degrees too hot for most mortals, and turns your skin red.

I usually don't like my pool water quite that warm, so I got out and made myself useful setting the table under the umbrella. Then it was time to make the tea.

As I swished the teapot around in the shallow end of the pool (3 feet, if you must know), Elektra inquired, 'What are you doing?'

'Warming the pot,' I replied. That done, I refilled the pot with pool water, threw in a couple of teabags, and let it steep while Elektra scooped up the eggs and bacon with a handy spatula.

The bacon was a tad overcrisp, but the eggs were done to a turn, the toast was tasty with jelly (okay, okay, I don't know if you call it 'jam', 'marmelade', or 'comfit', but it's clear, it's jellied, and it has grape squeezings in), and the tea was very good.

'There's something about the tang of chlorine that brings out the best in Earl Grey,' opined Elektra.

I agreed. 'Sort of like gunpowder tea, only less explosive.'

And so, children, this is how we celebrate global warming in the American South. If you have any comments, feel free to add them at the bottom of this page. After that, we should probably put this informative piece of writing into Peer Review.

Fact and Fiction by Dmitri Gheorgheni Archive

Dmitri Gheorgheni

01.08.11 Front Page

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