I won't starve, of course, the larder bursting with foods, and two other grocers within easy (though still unpleasant) walking distance. I could come close to starving, of course, but it would be due to forgetfulness or procrastination, not from lack of food. I still haven't fixed any dinner tonight, because I keep letting myself get distracted. So much Internet, so little time.
The flowers on the fence-hugging bush appear to be procrastinating, too. At last they are taking their time blooming. The dozen or so that bloomed last week are already withering, but another dozen have now emerged, and a couple dozen buds show signs of opening very soon. Still, I'm beginning to doubt that the bush will become a big white cloud of flowers as I'd hoped it would, its progress being so slow. There are hundreds of buds waiting to open, but the weather is cooling again, and more rain is coming. I failed to go anywhere at all today, so I hope I'll get a break in that rain so I can go out tomorrow or Tuesday.
But that mockingbird keeps singing every day. This evening it sang long after the sun had set and the color was draining from the sky. If I go out before dawn I hear it, too. It likes that slow-blooming bush, and spends quite a bit of the day in it. It might even be nesting in it, but the growth is too thick for me to see. I do sometimes hear a more monotonous chirping such as a baby bird might make, but it really seems too early in the season for hatchlings. Perhaps there is just some small bird who likes to hang out and listen to the mockingbird, as I do.
I really should be fixing some dinner before I get too tired to do it, as I did last night. But I do hate to cook. I wish I could just eat seeds and berries and worms and insects like a bird. It couldn't be much worse than the stuff I usually make.
Memoirs of a Mad Cook
by Gwendolyn MacEwen
There's no point kidding myself any longer,
I just can't get the knack of it; I suspect
there's a secret society which meets
in dark cafeterias to pass on the art
from one member to another.
It's so personal preparing food for someone's
insides, what can I possibly know
about someone's insides, how can I presume
to invade your blood?
I'll try, God knows I'll try
but if anyone watches me I'll scream
because maybe I'm handling a tomato wrong,
how can I know if I'm handling a tomato wrong?
something is eating away at me
with splendid teeth
Wistfully I stand in my difficult kitchen
and imagine the fantastic salads and soufflés
that will never be.
Everyone seems to grow thin with me
and their eyes grow black as hunters' eyes
and search my face for sustenance.
All my friends are dying of hunger,
there is some basic dish I cannot offer,
and you my love are almost as lean
as the splendid wolf I must keep always
at my door.