Bevy

little-angel-1314240-1280x1920 (1)Oh, the day that was.

We had an unexpected snow day and I thought this would mean that I would suddenly have a deep breath of clarity.  About everything.  That I would go into full-on scullery maid mode.  That I would get over all my idiocy.  That I would arrive here, tired from physical exertion, with plan and purpose intact and ready for tomorrow when there will not be another day off.   This did not happen.  The notification left me so discombobulated and pleased and worried and demanding that I stop worrying and ENJOY a day at home that I made zero plans and did nothing productive.  This is an okay outcome.  We can and will live with it.

This is the all or nothing thing my therapist tells me about.  It just seems like if you have a block of time, there is a best way to use it.  And if you could be the best, you would want to be the best.  But honestly, the best felt like laying here playing Dragon Age and reading this Kindle book Tremontaine and spinning through a few panels or fifty of Elfquest or watching Drunk History or making weird eggs in pretzel roll baskets and glancing out the window every few to see if I could come to some sort of conclusion about it all.  That was the best I came up with today.  Along with a spaghetti noodle-armed attempt to clear off my desk, that was about it.

I want to say I regret it.  I want to say I don’t.  The truth is very much between these margins.

Because the roll is very thick and dense and the hole you can carve out of it is very deep so that settling the egg in its center and putting it on high might lead it to burn.  But even putting it on low could mean that it would never cook all the way through before the crispy little bottom would blacken.  It was a delicate thing, to cook it just enough that it wouldn’t splatter across the skillet when I gingerly scooped them up with a spoon and flipped them flat and back again a few times.  That they came out with the middle just liquid enough to be velvety and rich and yet not chalky or lost to drip in any one of their turnings did make me feel – well, not Julia Child – but mildly above Sandra Lee.

I also remembered Nightfall and Redlance and stumbled into a few pages of Elfquest.  Man, that takes me back.  To another piece of awesome genre material that instead of making me feel like part of a tribe, made me feel unique, alone, a keeper of an esoteric and eclectic canon that only meant anything to me.  But I remember the characters, holts, the Preservers, those nude little moths that spat gunk all over things and put them in stasis.  I remember how much fun it was to read and feel the completeness of the world of Two Moons.

 

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