And another Monday rolls around.
Tom will head off to work on a house in Falmouth, Paul will be home today: I've decided to focus on a batch of poetry-related obligations this morning, and then get a hair cut, and then talk to Teresa about Byron, and at some point try to shoehorn in some vacuuming.
I still feel kind of discombobulated from the holidays: with so many on/off days, I haven't quite figured out how to slip back onto the tracks. That's a big part of freelancing: not only knowing how to make myself get to work but also being deft at shifting and compressing tasks and schedules. I am pretty good at all of these skills, but on this first Monday of a new year I'm reeling a little. I'll figure out how to buckle down, but I'll be glad to have another cup of coffee while I'm doing so.
Yesterday I made a slow-cooked lamb ragu. Tonight I'll probably marinate chicken breasts and then stir-fry them with bok choy. For later in the week I'm planning soft-shell tacos with the leftover chicken; and if there is no leftover chicken (one never knows in this house), I'll get some fish. I'll likely make split-pea soup at some point.
Another day, another dinner. The round of cooking is endless . . . day in, day out. Not that I'm complaining. As chores go, making dinner is enjoyable enough. But my work days are long: we tend to eat on the late side, so I'm in the kitchen every night till close to 8. I like setting the table in our window-dark dining room: cloth napkins, cloth placemats, tidy silverware, two candles lit every night. I like the formality: sitting down together, unfolding our napkins, gazing thoughtfully into the flames. Often our meals are very quiet. A small parenthesis of ritual.