Dirty Diet Coke

This isn’t even my recipe. It was offered at the local café, and I, being the genius I am, said, “Sure,” while some small, reasonable voice inside me whispered, Hey… what are you doing?

One of the dangers of a Dirty Diet Coke—besides people mistaking it for something stronger and possibly scandalous if you tell them what it’s called —is the way it clings to your nervous system like that last leaf on a tree in winter.

Ingredients: two shots espresso, one bottle Diet Coke.

Pour over ice.

Exhibits notes of sage, somehow, after sitting for a few minutes.

This may not be my year of yes, but I’ll be damned if I let it be my year of less, I thought, when offered it. So I drank — deeply. Turns out, it’s basically an anti-sleeping potion. I wrote poetry until 3 a.m.
Did I learn my lesson?
Hell no. I repeated it the next day.

Because the poetry wasn’t all that bad—even if I was part zombie the morning after. Not that I’m sharing it yet—don’t go getting addicted to my Busted Poetry Vending Machine™. It’s still missing a few screws.

Yesterday Morning, Pre-Breakfast:

Backing out of the driveway, one last poem hurled itself onto my steering wheel—just as determinedly as the squirrel that once launched itself onto my back while I sat waiting for the gym to open. Thump.

Yesterday, I stopped the car, grabbed my phone, wrote a note.

Coffee with a friend after that—heady discussions about heady writers: Murdoch, Woolf (briefly), Jackson (Shirley, that is). We swapped notes on the books we’re reading. My friend dropped a brilliant theory about why a recent novel’s editor is prominently credited on the cover—something I hadn’t even considered. I loved that so much I think I clapped.

I wore my cute-ass bibs instead of a hat. Sat adjacent to the sun, “warming up” to my old friend El Sol. Waved at the walking crew who sprawled at nearby tables in post strolling bliss. Caught video of a squirrel nibbling at a crumb tucked into a crack at the top of the café’s stairs. (No relation to the gym squirrel, as far as I know.)

Oh, and my back hates me right now, so if anyone knows what I did to piss it off so badly, please advise. In the meantime: send ice and ibuprofen.

Meanwhile, in the Department of Sustaining This Creative Cloud:

(This recipe is brought to you by Yesterday, because sometimes blog posts are written on multiple days, especially when after cooking you end up splayed on the sofa with an ice pack pressed against your lower back.)

Every creative should have a fallback meal for those nights when you really ought to eat but don’t want to stop, oh, I don’t know… writing poetry past dinner time. And when your back says, “You can cook, but make it quick.” (Hubby would totally have agreed to takeout yesterday, but our town has so few choices.)

Enter: Write Night Chicken Bacon BBQ Pizza.

(Inspired by a pizza Hubby and I ate loooonnnggg ago at Planet Hollywood in Chicago, back when we unironically visited theme restaurants.)

Recipe:

Premade pizza crust (the kind you don’t have to refrigerate—whatever kind you want, I’m not the boss of you).

The bacon that’s about to go bad in your fridge. Fry it. Or bake it. Or leave it off. Your call.

Rotisserie chicken. White meat, dark meat, both. Choose your own adventure. Amount? To taste. Obviously.

Preheat the oven to whatever temperature your crust package recommends.

Brush the crust lightly with olive oil. (What’s that? You need an exact measurement? Who hurt you? I promise you won’t lose any points if you freehand.)

Add a generous brush of barbecue sauce. Enough, but remember, we’re not filling a swimming pool with it.

Toss on the chicken and bacon. If you’re me, add more sauce, because we both know we don’t do subtlety. *Raises eyebrows several times*

Top with shredded cheese—your favorite kind. Enough to cover but not smother. If your cheese isn’t shredded, shred it. Or tear it into chunks with your bare hands. Who cares?

Chop some green onions. Sprinkle them on top—unless you want to skip your one chance at a green veg tonight. (At least it’s not kale. I’m done pretending to like kale. Kale chips are fine. Regular kale can see itself out.)

Bake according to crust directions—assuming you didn’t throw away the package like I did. If so, wing it. Trust your instincts. You’re a grown-up. Probably.

Timer? Set one. I use Echo so I can shout at her while my hands are dripping with mango juice. (Did you just taste mango when you read that? Same. It’s a glorious fruit.)

Once baked, slice the pizza. Pair it with fruit salad (cut up fruit, add a squeeze of lemon, sweetener if you want, maybe walnuts, maybe coconut flakes—depends on the fruit, right?) and (as a separate side) whatever veggies you can scavenge from the fridge. Serve the veg with hummus or bean dip. Fiber. Your mom called and said you need it. Eat it.

Voila. Dinner is served. Total time? Fifteen minutes, maybe, assuming you cut the fruit and vegetables while the pizza baked. (Pro tip: Slice extra strawberries. Someone will definitely want them.)

Perfect for the nights you’ve been writing and cannot be arsed to make something more complicated. Or, you know… on days when your back hates you.

(And we’ll just have to wait and see if the poetry becomes anything viable. The lab promises to have the results back within a week.)