Self Edit and Sliced Bread
Saturday, I flitted about in the kitchen. Hunger. He rested.
Broccoli blanched. Garlic, shallot and parsley. Extra virgin olive oil, crushed red pepper and conchiglie rigate (shells). Two nice lumps of butter, to encourage creaminess and sheen. To be eaten with a spoon in a bowl, twice over.
Four hard boiled eggs and a nice confetti of parsley, salt and pepper. A few pieces smoked salmon. Dill pickles. Leftovers, to discourage waste.
Spring mix and sliced rings of yellow onion, dressed.
Seven grain and a serrated knife. My arms, my hands, a machine. Each slice manufactured, 1-2-3-4. My machine girl...
Red wine, three quarters of a bottle strong. It likes me. I covet thee.
Sunday, a computer silent, PBS and Annie Leibovitz. My belly full. My camera full. Doubting and uninspired. Inspiration elsewhere? Where are you?
Minute by minute ticked by. A life collected. A timeline and evolution. Seeing things, in the moment. For what they are. Parallels.
Maybe I do have something, if nothing, but a moment.