Yesterday was a day that threatened to crush me like a tomato. Recovering from a lame duck date and a three day stretch of overexertion and undersleep, work was just about as excruciating as one would expect—and then it rained.*
But now that I have cultivated the solidarity in my own solitude—in the form of sauteéing garlic and pasta sauce—solace is easily found. I walked home in the rain, with a can of San Marzano tomatos and some spaghettini, and exactly an hour later Peter and I were stuffing our faces (in a rare moment of civilized dining at the kitchen table), sopping it up with crusty ass garlic bread.
It appears I've become one of those people who uses the kitchen as a supplement to therapy. This is convenient, as I have always been one of those people who eats her feelings.
Anyway, later, as I was drifting to sleep, the rain quiet and Queensie outside my window, I thought, "I've run out of boys" (not that I was in any way trying to accumulate them). Nevertheless, with the last death rattles of the Cinematographer, the list has officially been exhausted. I found myself wholly relieved—at peace even.
Literally ten seconds later, I got a text from the Foodie. Remember him? Sign from the universe or test from Satan?
I'm going with test from Satan.
*See here for further impressions of precipitation in New York City.
But now that I have cultivated the solidarity in my own solitude—in the form of sauteéing garlic and pasta sauce—solace is easily found. I walked home in the rain, with a can of San Marzano tomatos and some spaghettini, and exactly an hour later Peter and I were stuffing our faces (in a rare moment of civilized dining at the kitchen table), sopping it up with crusty ass garlic bread.
It appears I've become one of those people who uses the kitchen as a supplement to therapy. This is convenient, as I have always been one of those people who eats her feelings.
Anyway, later, as I was drifting to sleep, the rain quiet and Queensie outside my window, I thought, "I've run out of boys" (not that I was in any way trying to accumulate them). Nevertheless, with the last death rattles of the Cinematographer, the list has officially been exhausted. I found myself wholly relieved—at peace even.
Literally ten seconds later, I got a text from the Foodie. Remember him? Sign from the universe or test from Satan?
I'm going with test from Satan.
*See here for further impressions of precipitation in New York City.
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1 comment:
I happen to think that crusty garlic bread solves most problems... and I'm with you on the eating your feelings thing.
Since I live in LA every time it rains it's like a blessing and curse in disguise; blessing because I love the rain and it soothes me, curse because this city is not built to know how to deal with (or drive in) that rain.
Always a positive with a negative, I'm convinced. Hope you're well.
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