I feel better now that I wrote that. Because I wrote it.
I sometimes get this way. I don’t write for a day or two and then I have a build-up of ideas and I can’t sort through them and choose what to write about so I don’t write anything at all. And then I feel worse.
I’m tempted to write another Splat post. Maybe I’ll start a series of splats. Just every once in a while I will write down everything and anything that comes to mind—a brain-purging exercise. Then I would, hopefully, be able to breathe easier and, for a period of time, at least, write posts in a more calm and rational manner.
But I’d feel bad for you, my poor readers, who’d be left to sift through the riff-raff of my brain. Making you struggle through the murky mire of my mental state just wouldn’t be right. Or fair.
So, as a compromise, and in a superhuman act of self-restraint, I will exorcize myself of only two or three thoughts. The rest I will write down on paper and then burn, if I feel the need.
1. After three different tries over the past several weeks, I finally, just yesterday, tracked down the person who was “selling” political yard signs. After a semi-complicated game of phone tag, we finally got to talk to each other directly and he gave me directions (yes, I was talking on the cell phone while driving) to where I could meet him. He was waiting in his sticker-covered pick-up truck when I pulled up. I bought two signs; one for now, and the other for when the first sign gets stolen.
2. I don’t normally like to talk about things I’ll be doing in the future because there is always the chance that I won’t do it and I don’t like to disappoint, but I’m breaking my rule to tell you this bit of very exciting news: One of the political candidates, who’s sign is in my yard, is coming to town this week! Yo-Yo, Miss Becca Boo, and I are going to go midday and camp out all afternoon in order to get good seats. I figure this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance, as well as our history/current events lesson for the year.
3. The other day when I was putting The Baby Nickel down for a nap, I had this following daydream: The aforementioned political candidate’s entourage was driving to town and one of the staff members called me to say that they needed a place to stop for dinner and could I please feed them? They would be there in fifteen minutes.
Oh dear! What could I possibly feed them?
I quickly ruled out fancy stuff—lack of time. And no meat—it would take too long to thaw and cook.
And then I realized what I would do: I would pull out a bag of last year’s Roma green beans, a bag of my parents’ white sweet corn, some fingerling potatoes, a quart of the canned Lodi applesauce, some homemade jam and a loaf of bread. There is still chard in the garden, so I could cook up a big skillet of greens. For dessert I would turn to the freezer again for red raspberries and strawberries, and I could open jars of peaches and sweet cherries.
What could be better, and fancier, than just the simple stuff from the garden, cooked up and served in its most basic form? Now that would be worthy of a king, er, president-to-be (hopefully).