Thursday, December 11, 2014

in my kitchen (sort of): 4:15 p.m.


*the wall clock says it's 4:13 but it also says "Who cares?" so whatever
*pushed-back chairs and rooster end table to make room for the latest fad: gymnastics
*two of my children + two of their friends = four children
*dying fern hanging by the window
*on the wall, the picture I drew of my husband—I gave it to him the weekend I tried to break up with him
*below that picture, a pencil drawing my brother did of my brother and me when we were little
*on the other side of the window, our wedding fraktur
*leftover decorations (still!) from my birthday
*mountains of laundry and a broken wash basket
*on the table among the stacks of laundry, To Kill A Mockingbird, since my older son decided to re-read it (I think it just may be my favorite book of all time)
*out of the frame and in the very front center: holes in the hardwood floor, and giant cracks, too, as in the boards have split—we're like a pack of elephant kangaroos
*in the basket on the table: the last of our bushel of Fuji apples
*in the muffin tin: flopped gougeres that no one ate (the second batch turned out better but none of us were fans)
*the black record-keeping notebook that I had been jotting notes in for the next Milkmaids meeting
*on the yellow stool: my recipe/cooking notes/menu notebook (for supper that night: roasted carrots, roasted potatoes, and not much else)

This same time, years previous: icedpimento cheese spread, and cashew brittle.

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