Brain Fog, Pesto, and That Darned Cat - Again!

Though it's always a good day when the family is alive and well, there's food on the table, and the rent is paid -- not to mention the husband MOST gainfully employed -- there are those 24-hour periods that come along and challenge the psyche.  Even an uplifting session of worship and pastoring at ye olde local Church at Cross Point can't fully penetrate the dense layer of brain fog and body lethargy.  You know . . . one of those mornings where you realize you haven't just woken up on the wrong side of the bed but the entire wrong side of the universe?

That was me today.  Fortunately, nothing truly regrettable happened.  Though I did lose my one and only homemade batch of fresh pesto to the unyielding surface of our tiled kitchen floor.  I'm still not sure how it happened but happen it did.  And I swear to you it was the absolute tastiest I've made thus far: I think the raw walnuts put it over the top; the garlic to Romano cheese ratio was spot on; and the addition of Thai basil and Italian parsley with the traditional sweet basil -- a stroke of culinary inspiration.  Did I mention how it was a total marriage of savor and flavor when smeared over a thick meaty slice of garden tomato from Saturday's farmers market?  Sadly, I had to also say good-bye to one of my favorite little round-bellied jars in the unfortunate mishap.  Hey, at least I delivered the promised sampling to my across-the-street neighbor before there was none left to fulfill the offer!  That would have been a bit mortifying as the last offer I made, of garden vegetables, rotted in the back of the fridge after my son forgot to run them over. 

Aside from that, I had only to keep my head from exploding while pushing my speedy cart all around the expansive floor plan of the local Super Wal-Mart.  Though no one did a thing to me -- we were all in the same boat, mainly the good ship 'Let's Hurry Up and Get the Heck OUT of This Store!' -- my polite smile had hardened into a grimace by the end of the harried hour.  And I managed to forget the family's allotted weekly chewing gum supply.  There's always, ALWAYS, that one niggling little item on the list that gets overlooked . . . right up until a kid asks, "Mom, did you remember . . . ?"

My mom opened up her comfy couch to her irritable and tired daughter, allowing me to plunk my bare feet right next to her book and heating pad.  We cruised through portions of a few quality programs -- she finds the most interesting documentaries, checked Facebook, and put something light in our bellies.  Stopping in at her place was my sanity check BEFORE Wal-Mart and AFTER church.  A strategic schedule on such days as this.

My writing, as is evident here, suffers greatly on days like this.  Uninspired.  A bit flat.  No real ebb and flow.  A muddy, flat trickle.  But at least I'm here.  And, if you're reading, YOU are here, too. 

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On a different note, I realized my feelings toward our wandering orange kitty have changed since his latest mishap and the resulting confinement/rehabilitation.  I hadn't seen tail-switching hide nor shedding hair of him since arriving home around 6PM.  By 9:30, my alert level had risen to sudden concern for his safety.  In my mind, I saw him flattened out on the road next to our sub-division.  A sad pancake awaiting discovery by me and Panda on our morning walk.  Out the front door I rushed, lungs filled with the air necessary to issue my full-voiced call of "Kitty, kitty, kitty!"  But before I could draw my lips back from my teeth, his sauntering form materialized out of the darkness as he emerged from beneath the redbud tree.  Alive and resembling more a 4-legged breakfast sausage than a pancake with his extra pound of belly swaying lightly beneath him.  My worry dissipated.  I shooshed him through the front door and chastened him for staying out so late.  He expressed no remorse.

All is well in the Valdez home, relatively speaking, as night deepens and the pillows call.  There IS the issue of the clogged upstairs toilet.  But I'm not touching that story.