A different kind of a day

 

There really is more to Irene's story. 
I'm just slow in getting it on paper.
But watch for a tale of a wedding and drug dealers and, oh my!

Not bad, even a little bit good, but different. Those who know me well—and particularly my family, who will groan as they say it—know that I am pretty much a creature of habit. I get up about eight in the morning and go to my desk (okay I do brush my teeth first) with a cup of tea. A light breakfast, usually yogurt, about ten and a light lunch, leftovers if I have them, about twelve-thirty, both eaten at my desk while I work steadily until two or two-thirty. But then it’s a long nap. And after that, I piddle at my desk, following Facebook and reading recipes. It’s taken me five years to get over the idea that dinner must be at six and to adjust to the Burtons’ later schedule of dinner at seven-thirty and beyond.

But today my schedule got thrown into array. Rosa, the wonderful young woman who styles my hair, was coming at eight-fifteen. I got up early, brushed those teeth, cleaned the kitchen, and was all ready. By nine o’clock, I figured that she was not coming, so we talked…and she said she could be here at three-fifteen. Boom! Right in the middle of my nap. But I like Rosa so much, and I am so grateful that she does house calls for me, that I said fine.

I adjusted my schedule. Instead of breakfast and lunch, I indulged in a hearty brunch about eleven-thirty—poached eggs on buttered rye toast with cheddar cheese. Isn’t that called eggs on a raft? Or a Huck Finn? Or something like that. Anyway, it was wonderful. I got in a good morning of writing on the novel that seems endlessly in progress—and is still only half the length of most cozies. Then I took an early nap, so early that a little before two I was up, ready to do—what? My schedule was all thrown off. I did have a lot of housekeeping chores to do, and then it was back to my computer to work on the wip. I somehow have had a burst of energy or imagination or something on that novel (novella?) and am writing furiously.

Rosa did cut my hair—really short, which most of my family and friends like though one friend does not—and then she was gone. It was three-thirty, a time I’d normally be napping. What did I do with myself? Went back for another short nap, but I’d promised Jordan I’d sauté the leftover mushrooms and make more cucumber salad while she was off picking up Jacob from a golf tournament. Guess what? The mushrooms were already sliced, and so was the cucumber, and I had leftover dressing from last night’s cucumber salad. So what to do? I worked on the novel some more.

I don’t think I’ll change my established routine, but it was interesting to me that I got in more writing time today with that revised schedule. Don’t know if it was coincidence, because I’m fired up over the story I’m telling or what.

An odd day too in terms of menu choices. Those eggs for brunch are definitely not on my usual diet, and tonight, while waiting for Jordan to come home, I had some leftover Caesar dip with potato chips—the longer it sits, the stronger the anchovy taste gets, and I think it’s about time to say goodbye to it. But it is so good! And tonight—mushrooms on toast (a British thing, I think, that my mom taught me) and cucumber salad, followed of course by a bit of dark chocolate from Central Market. Admittedly an odd dinner, but it hit my favorite tastes. Jordan asked how I cooked the mushrooms, and I said, “Oh a bit of this and a touch of that.” Actually, olive oil, butter, white wine, garlic salt, and Worcestershire. But I insist you have to put them on toast, preferably rye. The bread soaks up all that good cooking liquid.

So now, as the poets say, the day is waning. I don’t think I have another word in me for Irene’s story tonight. And my kitchen duties are done. I’m off to find a good book from the TBR pile on my Kindle. I started one last night, about Chicago in the nineteenth century and a woman Pinkerton agent, but it was about the seamy side of Chicago—not the history that really grabs me. I have lots of other choices.

Tonight around six we had lots of distant thunder. Sophie laid right by me, but it all came to nothing. Not a drop of rain, and now the thunder is long gone, and the cicadas are singing. Happy summer night.