Tiny taters
I am sitting comfortably, a world away from the chatter onscreen. The Oscar red carpet stroll is underway, with the moments of chatter about absolutely nothing by people with much larger clothing allowances than me.
Somehow, my choice of a tee and sweats is inappropriate… Not that it matters. Unless I learn to make movies in the near future, and manage to astound the populace generally, my gilded invite may never be delivered to my community mailbox. I’m doomed to never experiencing the need to converse about nothing at all. Wasn’t there a song about that?
Closer to home (in my kitchen), there was a session of potato rebagging this afternoon. Somehow, we were blessed with about fifteen kilos of tiny red taters, fit for boiling but too small to peel. My division of the pile into smaller sacks (rescued from recup) will allow them to be stored in a cooler part of the house. Or planted; with the rapid remission from winter, that might be a plan. After all, the field below will be “grained” this year, so I’d have a corner on the bug and blight woes. Do you detect my disinterest?
Rumour of a chocolate fondue. Best wrap this up, and then get gooey.
What happens if you toast and eat a slice of bread, and then learn that there might have been a trace of green along one edge? Is the death slow and agonizing?
And so we move along that carpet. Familiar names and faces, even if rarely paired. I feel so foreign to their process.
