It is said that ninety or so years ago the jail in Ventura, which bills itself "the poinsettia city" served prisoners burned beans so often that they came to be known as the beans with the poinsettia flavor. My mom, whose uncle was on the Ventura police force, told me that. Maybe eating burned beans will make me nostalgic for Ventura in the 1920s, a place I never knew but by stories. Stories other than mine seem more interesting tonight anyway. My story tonight is that my mind is muddled and I'm eating burned beans for dinner.
Good thing I've got beer to wash them down with. That means there is at least a happy ending.