Thursday, April 27, 2017

reading

I am almost through the washing of the laundry. The drying clothes are mostly packed together like prisoners in a ship about to go off somewhere hot and humid.
I don't want to fold the clothes as this wastes valuable time when I am partially awake.
Older boy is still out socializing with his poor father. Hopefully they will remember to get the shrimp curry. Younger boy just woke up. It's already day over and he just got out of bed to eat toast. I added the orange slices, the strawberries and grapes. As much as possible I add choice so that he gets something other than plain toast in him. No sort of mixture of food is tolerated as this might breed conflict.
As he silently eats, I read my library books. There are a ton of interesting points in the books. The cookbook that promised to give me easy stuff to cook is a dud. I can't make anything in the book except maybe the macaroni and cheese which no one wants to eat in my family for mysterious reasons.
The pictures in the cook book were delicious and only inhibited me further from acquiring essential knowledge that would move me from scarcity of ideas (usually pasta) to the multitude of meatstuffs depicted gloriously in the book. Just looking at the pictures made me realise the paucity of my motivation to cook when there are amazing folks who can turn chicken wings into flaming delicacies. Basically you need to be motivated to use this book and since I have a fridge full of food that no one touches until I go and slice stuff we are mostly eating raw. Salad. A platter of veggies. The eggs in various formats. Sandwiches. Stuff that a college student makes and from which position I have not budged. I can live on cheese toast and tea
So I will take the cook book back to the library. I could make a copy of the creme caramel which I do feel motivated to make but I need an oven to make it in. Since my oven died and I bought a small toaster oven in yet another garage sale the baking business has ended. I can bake a chicken in the toaster oven but it is tight. In any case the family won't eat the roast chicken. The family having been raised on deprivation now look upon real meals as only desirable at restaurants.
Since I have been so bad about the cooking I will pretend this has resulted in the good result of everyone being skinny. This is for the most part true except I am usually eating the leftovers of younger boy. Having witnessed starvation and inequity first hand as a horrified 13 year old with the added reinforcement of genocide I am now permanently inclined to eat everyone's leftovers. This is the reason I need to go for walks.
Where was I in this post? I have made a stab at the library books. The fiction books were mind bending. Who knew that ordinary human beings were capable of cellular expression to such devious ends? The imagination is a molecular soup that needs further research in my humble opinion.
The books flattened the already limp attention span so I had to write. Then younger boy diverted me with the need for additions to his bland diet. I note that the last bread crusts were left on his plate and due to childhood exposure to the world's stupidity in the form of poverty, destruction of the weakest among us and plain evil, I ate his crusts. I then arrived back her feeling a need to write rather than fold the laundry that is stiff and wretched in their prisoner rows in the hull of my ship of the mud room. I do not want to think about folding them and putting them into packed closets. How is it even possible that I give away all our clothes to the Goodwill place and yet like socks that mysteriously vanish the reverse happens with these pieces of clothing that I wash? How is it even possible for these garments to replicate?
Maybe I should go write a poem. While politics is the game of queens, poetry is the game of fools.

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