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Cotton-candy existence
Another day on lockdown
Daisy the ever-faithful hound lies beside me, her chin resting on the hardwood floor, little sticks and pieces of redwood bramble stuck in her tail and in the feathers of her coat.
I took her on the mountain this morning. I made sure it was the first thing I did after waking. I’m getting bothered by how slothful I’m becoming in our locked-down world. I feel the need to force a little structure to the routine so I don’t find myself in pajamas at 2 p.m. It happened last weekend, and it wasn’t a particularly good feeling.
I feel like I’ve been on a cotton-candy diet. We cook a lot. We bake. We make (and eat) frosted layer cakes (two in one week, in fact), pies (blueberry-rhubarb, twice), galettes (almond-rhubarb), cookies (flat and chewy chocolate chip), and sundaes with bittersweet chocolate melted in the double boiler and cream shaken in the mason jar and almonds or walnuts toasted on the mini cast-iron pan over a low flame.
We listen to the Jazz Oasis on KCSM most nights, but that’s nothing different. We watch movies. A lot of movies. That is different. I finally saw Taxi Driver, which was amazing. Good Fellas. I saw the inimitable Matthew McConaughey in Dallas Buyer’s Club again. It was just as great a second time. We finally saw Bombshell. And on and on. See what I mean? Cotton-candy…
