scribblechic

When last we met, I had swept through my kitchen gathering recipes in preparation for busy school nights on the horizon. Enthusiasm and inspiration guided my good intentions to the pantry.  Overwhelmed and intimidated, uncertain where to start, I sought the comfort of food and the company of procrastination.

I began plucking random ingredients in search of a happy distraction.  Collecting everything around my cutting board I sliced scallions and chopped celery, adding them to chunky flakes of tuna fish with a dollop of mayonnaise.  Slathering this simple summer sandwich spread between oversized whole grain crackers and vine ripened tomatoes, I crowned them dramatically with cheese broiled to bubbly brown perfection.  Perched at my island, I scoured the area for a new distraction.

Noting the fine coating of sawdust from a new remodeling project and the intermittent path of children’s footprints snaking from each door in unchoreographed paths around the furniture and to the stairs I determined this task took precedence over the pantry. I vacuumed and then steamed in my trademark nonsensical pattern of strokes that inevitably makes missed opportunities as obvious as well intended endeavors.  At this I sat down for one of those slow, slightly maddening laughs.  Near to tears I couldn’t escape the irony of my efforts.  For all my false productivity, procrastination seemed determined to mock me.

I am back in the pantry, avoiding the rest of the house.