Lunch

I did not go out into the garden yesterday. Or at least I don’t remember whether I did. I must have watered, but only in a mechanical sort of way, without paying too much mind.

The day was too full to linger there. And today, I have made my rounds, the cursory greetings and expressions of delight at a new flower, the swelling gourd and loofah pod, new things.

Dangling green beans that I leaving hanging, although I should pick them, but will wait until I have time to cook. And oh, surprise, young peas already on their self-sown vine. They are nice and I nibble on their sweetness and discard their shells wherever I like.

And then I remember food, for yesterday was rushed boiled potatoes and something else, on yes, ice cream which did not cool. So why, you ask such crazy eating?

It is the text. The imperative of the big text demands my all, and does get it, in fits and starts.

But today, I gather up this and that and peppers and tomatoes and onions and cheese and whatnot. I force myselfself to make the dough. The pizza is in the oven and will have to pass for the five vegetables that one is supposed to eat daily. Ah, the big text calls me,
But wait, the oven timer is sounding.

I shall eat like a queen today, if queens eat in front of laptops somewhere in this squiffy realm.