the world a letter

I’ve been super busy these past two weeks—and especially these last four or so days. At least some of it is make-busy, I’ve spent hours in the kitchen, which is where I end up when anxious—the weeks before and after “shock and awe” were particularly culinary ones, I remember, loads of biscotti for some reason—and Dara’s due date is next Monday. Able to cook, but sit down and collect my thoughts? No way. Good anxious, but anxious.

My cooking now isn’t all frivolous—we are subscribing to a CSA, and each Sunday we get a big box of picked-the-day-before organic local veggies direct from the farm. It’s a pretty good deal all around, cutting out the middleman saves $ (as well as environmental impact) on both sides. But only this week am I getting into the swing of adjusting, keeping pace, etc., with what we receive. This week lots of cole slaw, pesto, big pot of Marcella Hazan’s minestrone, steamed kale. Chile-cilantro marinated grilled chicken. Baked beets. Loads of cucumbers. The kale is so tender (though big) you can eat the stalks fresh, almost. Not really, but yes after a minute of steaming.

So apologies if I owe you an ms. with comments, email, phone call, comments response, lunch date, thought, or poem. You are on my mind. Things’ve been hecticker than I can recall, and my brain is somehow moving both faster and slower than circumstance. I haven’t wanted to smoke a cigarette in years, and have wanted to since I left the PSA offices (after going over edits) last week and saw two guys who worked at the PSA stepping out for a smoke.

Did I mention we’re (well, Dara is, technically; well, completely technically, our little girl is too) having an at-home birth with midwives? On top of those preparations we have the usual baby-buying mayhem, which by rights we shouldn’t have to do again, since this is our second, but given our Exodus-style departure from Salt Lake City, we kind of have to start from scratch. Today a stroller; tomorrow, the changing table!

(Well, actually, tomorrow, a wedding.)

And all along, I am writing some but not so much as I could be—I feel like I could be only writing, and just as busy, if these wonderful though consuming necessaries weren’t present.

And of course I exhaust easy, so there's that at all times, too.