December 12, 2011

abominable snowman says, no pictures please

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Burl Ives

the days are short, and dark, and cold. I spend my sunday making homemade cinnamon hard candy; it cools in a slab on the counter, then gets broken up with a hammer, sugared, and put into jars. I infuse vodka (cranberry lime). the sealed jar leaks when I shake it. I dye my secondhand full seat breeches, to hide the stains made by someone else's black dressage saddle. I intend to dye them from white to dark grey but, inexplicably, they emerge navy blue instead. I make a double-batch of caramels and discover too late -- as the pot is boiling -- that my candy thermometer has sprung a leak and is steaming on the inside, making it impossible to know the temperature. they come out as the world's softest caramel, too pliable to wrap into bites. they're still delicious, but you almost could eat them with a spoon. unsure of what to do with them next, they sit in pans on the counter, wrapped in parchment paper.

I think to watch a movie, but I'm too restless. I stretch my injured places, which keep hurting anyway. I sit down to knit, but I am too distracted to finish more than four rows, and I get up again. I make the next day's lunch. I stand in the kitchen eating a banana, which I smear with peanut butter before every bite.

life is lovely, but very messy. all we can do is learn to work with what it brings.

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