141.
Sometimes, when I'm tired and trying to take a nap, I think about what to make for dinner. I think about what's defrosting in the refrigerator, and why I put it there. I think about what would make it an actual meal. I mentally go through what else resides on the shelves, opening each bin, what bags. Onions. Potatoes. Carrots. Jarlsberg.
I was hunting for a fish complement--I'd bought some ginger just for this purpose. There would be rice. Onions were fixed. Eggs? No. Celery? Pass. Mental inventory: carrying on.
"Don't you still have some peppers?" My eyes were closed, the room dark, the thought lingering. I shifted, one step irritated. This would lead to no good. I'm not inclined to stir-fries; they're high-heat affairs, all impulse, and I'm prone to having my vegetables cooked. At the least, if something goes one step too far, I can just shrug and say, "It was meant to be."
"You could do a stir-fry."
"..." This wasn't quite what I had intended, what with me, socks on, glasses off, sprawled and dammit I'd just started warming the sheets. And yet, there it was. That slow shift of focus, retreating from enviable drowsiness and a return to sharpening acuity.
"I think this means I should get up." Pillow. Blanket. Goodbye. Gah.
I fumbled for my glasses--logically they're always somewhere within an arm's radius--and let the twilight blur resolve. Door. Kitchen. Fish. Go.
I was hunting for a fish complement--I'd bought some ginger just for this purpose. There would be rice. Onions were fixed. Eggs? No. Celery? Pass. Mental inventory: carrying on.
"Don't you still have some peppers?" My eyes were closed, the room dark, the thought lingering. I shifted, one step irritated. This would lead to no good. I'm not inclined to stir-fries; they're high-heat affairs, all impulse, and I'm prone to having my vegetables cooked. At the least, if something goes one step too far, I can just shrug and say, "It was meant to be."
"You could do a stir-fry."
"..." This wasn't quite what I had intended, what with me, socks on, glasses off, sprawled and dammit I'd just started warming the sheets. And yet, there it was. That slow shift of focus, retreating from enviable drowsiness and a return to sharpening acuity.
"I think this means I should get up." Pillow. Blanket. Goodbye. Gah.
I fumbled for my glasses--logically they're always somewhere within an arm's radius--and let the twilight blur resolve. Door. Kitchen. Fish. Go.