Blowing it off. Delaying. Ignoring. Hiding. Hey. It’s a spring day in February, a taste of what is to come, a frolic time, playing hooky, putting off. I’m for that, never mind that I actually did have a plan for today. In a large box in the pantry is a gift to myself. It sits waiting for me, filled with all the possible necessaries to perform creative cookery. My whole 59 year long marriage has been filled with pieces/parts with no nesting, matching or graduated sizes of anything cook worthy. Worse, the uneven heat, the poorly balanced pots and pans with hot spots etc., while not deterring me from near- pro skills, didn’t help much in the way of guarantees of outcome. It is very late to remedy that, but hey, I might live to be a centenarian. After lunching with friends yesterday, I took notes from one of them whose mother is 106. Years, that is. So I could be cooking for another couple of decades. Chewing would be the more questionable effort.
Today I stole time from that endeavor to learn a bit more computing, and then improved my Lumosity skills, a little brain fun which I enjoy. And, not yet ready to make room for the pro set of cooking tools, I’m practicing my word skills. Lunch, then a short walk, and finally to the work at hand. Then I should road test at least one of the new toys and make something delish for dinner, though I sorely want to return to Bonefish Grill where I had the best fish and chips this side of UK, yesterday. Didn’t think that was possible. Good company, great food, what could be better!
Best get about my chore, knowing I’ll be so glad I got that done. I’m a really poor organizer, but an orderly cook, especially with the aging brain….did I add the vanilla? milk? eggs? If I don’t put items away after adding, I can’t recall if I did. So what’s missing from the counter can be assumed to be in the pot.
The resident hawk has a chick who heralds the world most of the day. Still in the nest, it calls for Mama’s bounty. In a couple of weeks she’ll teach it to spiral and before he knows it, he’ll go hunting with her. Another cycle begins. But first, more snow in the forecast. Really. 74 degrees today, 35 tomorrow. Well, it’s Ohio, even here in tropical Medina.
I’m not a gardener, at least in any deliberate way. Chirping at the table was happy noise from my friends who are happy to see tall shoots of daffs and tulips in their gardens and borders. I haven’t even looked. Sure. I planted stuff, and despite my careless attempts, bulb things grow. In today’s warmth, I’ll go look. Not quite time for the periwinkles, but the dogwood has set its buds and look to be plentiful after last year’s skimpy production. I don’t want you to think I don’t enjoy Spring’s new dressing. It’s just that I’m a passive participant. Jumping in today will only make tomorrow’s snow the cause of my despair seem blizzard-like. I start looking for spring way ahead of time, and tomorrow will only aggravate that ongoing condition. I’ll be thankful for the day but won’t put much stock in it.
This time each year I recall a hound’s tooth check in the fabric of my too small winter coat, its sleeves creeping toward my elbows, its lapels flapping in the wind as I skated the sidewalks of my new town, knobby knees pinking in the cold. That memory is ever with me as winter bows to spring.