... you just shouldn't get out of bed.
That was yesterday. It wasn’t much of a challenge until around 3 PM, at which time whatever planetary alignment is responsible for my balance and coordination came completely unhinged. When you’re trying to can applesauce, that’s not necessarily a good thing.
I had no idea that apples on a slow boil were so freaking hot. Thanks to the streak of red skin across the back of my right hand, I can now remember that whenever I look down. Which is good,right?
I had apparently forgotten the salient points of roasting a freaking chicken. For example, when you choose to roast at 400 degrees, the splattering of the grease can cause some amount of smoking. In such cases, said smoke might permeate the entire house – especially if you have a small house. (I have a small house.)
As I realized the smoking effect was not exactly promoting healthy respiration, I pulled the bird out for a moment to let the grease cool down a little. Occupied as I was in opening windows, turning on fans, and finishing Duckie’s bath, I forgot to turn the oven back on.
Half an hour later I was still wondering why the damned chicken wasn’t done, and why it hadn’t gotten any browner. At that point I was sorely tempted to take a trip to our local grocery store’s deli. They make killer fried chicken.
When I pulled the bird out, I had forgotten that the pot holders were a little damp from the steam coming out of the bean pot. Have you ever tried to pick up a 400-degree pyrex dish with a damp potholder? I was forcibly reminded of my physics class - water is an excellent conductor for heat.
I tried to clean up the kitchen as much as possible. The two biggest pots were still adorned with gobs of brown, cinnamon-y apples (which weren’t as hard to clean as you might think.) The biggest bowl I have was out – used primarily to strain the applesauce, which was too saucy for my taste – and then to wash the chicken. You can imagine that my little galley kitchen looked kinda like a shipwreck at this point.
In the process of cleaning, the small coffee cup I was using for basting melted butter on the bird slipped right out of my hand and broke on the floor, shards of ceramic flying and landing in a big plop of half-congealed butter.
Fortunately, Duckie was in her dinner chair at the time. Fortunately, I did not utter shocking profanities. (Comparatively speaking, this was pretty minor.) Fortunately, it was late in the evening and I knew I would be in bed in a couple of hours.
We left to pick up Brian from his Sunday evening social hour. I chose major, well-lighted roads. I didn’t trust my cataracts not to slide towards the front of my eyeballs and completely obstruct my vision. I didn’t trust the peacocks not to be hiding on the other side of the blind curve. (There are also pygmy goats sometimes. You just never really know what you’re going to run into – literally – in my neighborhood.)
I did manage to get into bed without further disasters. Duckie slept in her own bed, and I was able – gratefully – to get up this morning and spend a couple of hours by myself, on the mat.
It’s really much easier to warm up if my body isn’t still recovering from the day before. (I skipped on Sunday.)
I wanted to breathe deeply – really, I did. But mostly I didn’t. Mostly I was just relieved that I wasn’t plopped face down on the mat. Pleasantly surprised that the toughest routine I could choose (other than an original one) wasn’t unmanageable, especially if I took it a little easier in the beginning. Two hours is a long time to be on the mat. It works better when I remember I’m in it for the long haul.
Which could be said about a lot of things, I suspect.