by JC Lynne
I can see the back of my fridge. Understand this isn’t a new thing, but the light, airy space of my fridge is welcome. This gaping cavity also extends to the pantry. I let this happen a couple of times a month.
My mother is a hoarder. Tchotchkes and chingaderas fill her house. Foodstuffs and non-perishables fill everywhere else. We have learned to check expiration dates on things.
Mind, it’s only her and my dad. Two people. Come zombie apocalypse we can meet at my parents’ house. Supplies, weapons, maybe even an AK47. Until then, I enjoy seeing the back of the pantry. I like knowing I’m only stocking what we’ll eat this week. I told the Beard I’m looking forward to the day it’s just the two of us.
When it’s just the Beard and me, we frequently snack. He rarely complains about food and if I go vegetarian every meal of the week, he won’t make a peep. Our grocery bill will plummet.
Sometimes it’s a budget issue, I eek out meals through the Beard’s payday.
Other times, it’s plain neglect. I’m on a writing tear, dust bunnies rise for insurgency, muddy paw prints mark the bamboo, cardboard stacks loom, and laundry piles.
Blasting through editing notes on a manuscript, a couple of days blew by without me noticing. Frozen pizzas and the burrito shop saved the day. This week it was a combo….the changes I made on the first meant continuity errors in the second manuscript.
Twenty-five chapters later, I’m caught up. It helped the weather turned frigid and brutal. Zero motivations for the gym after the temperature dropped thirty degrees in an hour.
Today I woke with my normal plan in mind…coffee, gym, grocery store, write. In the Zen of milk steaming, my characters changed the plan. It’s a love hate thing when they start talking. Yay! I’m moving forward. Shite, the teenagers need to eat. Yes, I know PB&J…but I think we may be out of bread. I don’t eat it anymore so I’ll have to check.
I blew off the gym, but the weather is moving in and I don’t like loading groceries in the wind. I’ve already bribed Son 1 to clean the house for me although he’s hollering and hooting at the Xbox in the basement. Son 2 is puking so he’s quarantined to his room.
The other thing is my writing mojo inspires a certain food ennui. Typically I make a weekly menu. Today I’ve got nothing. Not only are supplies limited, but I also can’t muster a single menu idea. I’d rather write. I’m preparing a shite storm for the next chapter. I need to plan a firefight, not a menu.
I didn’t even mention the Beard’s wardrobe crisis. The hilarity of a grown man throwing a fit over the lack of, ahem…I said I wouldn’t mention it…was terrifically entertaining. I did run a couple of loads through…clean, but still piled in the baskets. Hey, he got his coffee this week and I managed to make tostadas AND fried chicken.
Oh crap, the Writing Staff needs dog food and I haven’t even made the bed. Excuse me a minute….