Disease! Germs! Comfort food!

Things strewn about my house when I am sick:

1 small cast-iron skillet, buttered, with fried egg fragments on the 2nd to largest burner of the stove
1 stick of butter, partially unwrapped
1 thermos of earl grey tea
1 mug of almost-gone earl grey tea
1 book of "Extreme Fiction" on top of toilet tank
1 glass of orange juice, empty except for little dried pulp bits
2 cell phones, near laptop
1 laptop, with several internet windows and tabs open
1 blanket, dragged everywhere I go
Several cookbooks, open to different pages
3 plates, 2 bowls, 1 mixing bowl, 2 spatulas, 5 glasses in the sink
A multitude of crumbs
Ideas about cooking
Thoughts about exercise
Feelings of self-pity
Several coughs
Headaches stay in my head
1 jar of Nutella, almost empty
1 knife with faint smears of Nutella on it

Rule: If you spend a bunch of time worrying about and planning a big event, then throw yourself wholly into it, you will get sick. Also: butter is an excellent healing agent.

Words are lovely

Let's read someone who says it better than I do:

(Reprinted WITHOUT permission)

Perhaps the World Ends Here

by Joy Harjo

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what,
we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the
table so it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe
at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what
it means to be human. We make men at it,
we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts
of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms
around our children. They laugh with us at our poor
falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back
together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella
in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place
to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate
the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared
our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow.
We pray of suffering and remorse.
We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table,
while we are laughing and crying,
eating of the last sweet bite.

"Perhaps the World Ends Here" by Joy Harjo, from Reinventing the Enemy's Language. © W.W. Norton and Co., 1998.

Rule: Think of what the dining table/space means to you. Post comments. Also, when it is continually 90 degrees F and muggy as all getout, PICK UP YOUR DOG DOOKS. Oh the humanity. (Doo-manity)

France!

Sooooooo, in case you missed the bragging, here are the photos.

http://picasaweb.google.com/thatgirl.sandy/France2010#

Rule: The croissants are always better in France. (it's the butter. and the skill)