Yesterday, I got my best writing done before noon, without any music, because I had to stay laser-focused since I knew I had to leave the house at twelve. By the time I got home mid-afternoon, I was tired and drained*, though I did work a little bit more in the evening before I had to call it a night.
So this morning, I took a suggestion from the book that launched Tiny Tuesdays in the first place.
It wasn’t quite as glorious as it looks with the Instagram filter, and it was more brunch than breakfast (because I have to wait at least an hour to eat or have any dairy products after my first meds of the day, I usually forget to eat and end up doubling up breakfast/lunch, then have a snack mid-afternoon to tide me over until dinner). One egg that was supposed to be over-easy, but I broke the yolk so ended up scrambling it, a mini bagel with cream cheese, a small apple, two strips of bacon (halved so I could fit them in my favorite small frying pan), with coffee, water, and a wee glass of orange juice.
This is the music from yesterday. I have more Fleetwood Mac, but there were a lot of repeats found on the CDs I’d previously listened to, so I finally moved on to the “G”s. Who’s up next, I wonder? (For part of it, my timing is perfect, because Tom is working in the office today. He wasn’t at all excited about maybe having to hear one of my favorite bands from my early teens. He doesn’t mind when my iTunes shuffles them in an occasional song at a time, but entire CDs in one sitting are a nope for him. 😂)
Fleetwood Mac, Behind the Mask and The Dance; Peter Gabriel, US.
ETA: *I’d forgotten to put a note about one reason I was drained. Too much news. I get so exhausted by our national news when I see news from other parts of the world–like southern Turkey and northern Syria right now, dealing with the devastation and loss of life from earthquakes. So many parts of the world have to cope with those things when they are already reeling from humanitarian crises. Here, we have so much and often give so much, at home and abroad, but we behave so deplorably toward one another within our borders. Even bringing these things up publicly, one runs the risk of accusations of performative politics, being “woke,” being a sheep and a “libtard.” If that’s what compassion and hope and the occasional plea for awareness, kindness, and education are, I reckon I’m guilty.
For years, I’ve tried to replicate my mother’s recipe for fried corn. She gave me directions. She let me watch her do it. She told me the specific kind of fresh corn on the cob I needed to buy and how to prepare it the way she did. I have never found corn sold under that name. And I have never successfully made a batch of corn that tastes like hers. This week was no exception. I mean, the corn was fine, but it wasn’t hers. I’ve searched and tried online recipes. I’ve enjoyed Lynne’s version that she cooks the way her mother did. Even the best fried corn I’ve eaten doesn’t taste like my mother’s. I try this at most every two or three years, so it’s not a big deal, and in one way, my failure amuses me: my mother would like knowing she did something no one else has been able to do. (There are many others; even if she never acknowledged those, I do.)
In the few years before I was laid off from my job because of the pandemic, one of my holiday frustrations was not having the time to address and send Christmas cards to friends and family. I could start the process in December but sometimes didn’t finish it until my March birthday and, one year, even Easter. No more job meant this is one activity I’ve been able to accomplish since 2020 before Christmas. This year might be my earliest ever, partly because we were able to get a family photo in November thanks to Lindsey.
My writing break includes coloring and eating. I could have been cute and said coloring and crudités, since that word is all over the news, but I’d be wrong.
