Ten.Seven Hundred & Fifty-Two
Forgot the alarm again.
Blueberry cornmeal muffins. No coffee for me but I make a pot for him then gather what I need for the chai.
The smell of orange, cinnamon, cardamom, clove, and ginger.
The girl makes one for herself with frothy whole milk and the oldest boy puts his over ice. I don’t know if I’ve made enough.
I think of how maybe it won’t be a loss but a gain. That I’d gain whatever it is that a normal life feels like. How there would no longer be a need for any kind of performance. How I could just cook and just read and just make what I wanted, when I wanted, without attaching anything to it.
I always scan the cookbook shelf.
There are so many cows to name.
I go back to the grocery store for more olive oil because I feel compelled to have an aioli for these potatoes. I’m making quite an elaborate meal for a regular Wednesday. But any day can be a special day, right?
He puts the slice of peach on his fork and then adds on the arugula/basil/goat cheese for one big bite. He gives me the thumbs up. “Only because of the peach!”
Random things that catch you off guard like your tween son watching “Fixer Upper” of his own free will.