Sunday, ah Sunday!

 

My simplified Salade Nicoise
Sorry, Julia Child, no olives.

Somehow Sundays are do-nothing days. It’s not that my routine is any different than any other day, but something inside me knows it’s Sunday and doesn’t want to buckle down to any serious work. Today, I “went” to virtual church, cooked supper for myself, did a couple of small, list-making chores, and spent an incredible (and wasteful) amount of time playing on the web.

For instance, my son-in-law sent pictures of the Mahr Building in Telluride, once a bank and the very first bank that Butch Cassidy ever robbed. It’s been almost thirty years since my version of Butch’s story (really Etta’s story), Sundance, Butch, and Me, was published, and I really don’t need to do any more research on Butch who, in my view, was a Robin Hood character and did not die in Bolivia. Nonetheless, I followed that rabbit hole for a bit—that’s what Sundays are for: odd little bits of knowledge and investigation.

I have been reading or trying to and am beginning to worry about myself. I am a picky reader and I have tried four books and given up on all of them. One, set in 1947, had flashbacks to a female spy in WWI—she had been tortured and I didn’t want to read about that, although the main plot interested me. Another was a murder set in Provence, according to the title, but it proceeded at far too pastoral a pace; a third proposed to take cooking out of the realm of domesticity and make it a respected occupation. I opened it eagerly, only to find a series of short stream of consciousness entries about the physical sensations of cutting through a pumpkin. Scratch that. The final book, which I opened with enthusiasm, was almost a spoof on romance and cooking. It’s a popular book, one I’ve heard much about and thought I should read. At first, I read it with pleasure but then I began to wonder how long the author could sustain the literary conceit on which it was based—a very unlikely (and not particularly likeable character) in a kitchen. Not quite halfway through I decided I was done. So I am an author in search of a good book to read.

Sundays are also for napping, and I am one of those who remember vivid dreams. I’ve had a couple of doozies this weekend, both what I think experts would call Freudian. In one, I was cleaning out my VW (not far-fetched—it’s nineteen years old and Jordan still drives it), getting rid of a bunch of detritus an ex had left behind. I thought that man had moved out of my head a long time ago, so why was I still dreaming of getting rid of him? The other had to do with my office—everyone was going to Austin for a meeting that we all enjoyed annually, only they had all made plans to travel with others and nobody asked me, asked me where I was staying, acted like they planned for me to go. Even one of my sons, who never had any connection to my office. I’ve been thinking a lot about aging lately, and I think that dream was subconsciously reinforcing what I say every day I know: let go of the past and enjoy the good memories. In this case, let go of the job I loved so much and treasure the memory of all those book festivals and conferences. Makes me a bit nervous about going to sleep tonight.

I’ve been on my own, without company, for dinner two nights in a row, and I’ve taken advantage of that to fix a couple of things I really like. Last night I fixed brinner—breakfast for dinner, consisting of soft-scrambled eggs, smashed baby potatoes, and grape tomatoes. Tonight it was a modified Salade Niçoise with a good anchovy vinaigrette. Enough left for lunch tomorrow.

I think I’m glad tomorrow is Monday. I have some serious writing replaying itself in my head, and I need that new keyboard to get it done!

Maybe more thunderstorms tonight. I hope they are like the one we just had—gloriously loud and noisy, with lots of rain, but nothing destructive—no hail, no wind. Hope everyone else in the area was as fortunate. Sophie, of course, barked furiously as though she could intimidate the thunder. It didn’t work.

Brinner