If the universe rewards hard work, I'm going to kick back with my glass of wine and wait for the goods to roll in on freight cars. If no freight cars arrive by tomorrow morning I'll go to Safeway and buy myself a large container of Cherry Garcia. I pulled, raked, and bagged ivy for six hours today. I'm exhausted. I wore out a brand new pair of work gloves--the first and last time I'll ever buy women's work gloves--bah. It hurts to make a fist. The rest of me feels okay since the Advil kicked in. If you knew my place, you would actually notice the change. I didn't finish what I started, but I made good progress.
I cooked for myself tonight, which is something I frequently feel inspired to do and usually regret. I made an Indian dish--Aloo Ghobi. I've made this dish maybe a dozen times, and I've burned it every single time. When it comes to cooking I have attention deficit disorder: if I think I can wait five minutes before stirring something again I sit down with the laptop and twenty minutes later (if I'm lucky) I remember I have something on the stove. I can reliably make pasta and soup and that's about it. Oh, and toast--I can make toast, too. Which is apparently proof that I have sufficient skills to survive. My mother is still in the rest home following her second hip replacement surgery. She's getting occupational therapy, and recently had to demonstrate that she could make toast. If you knew my mother, you'd laugh as hard as I did. If, that is to say, you knew her history regarding toast. My mother has no more patience with cooking than I have.
Leave a comment