I've been trying to write this entry for a week.
This was not the week I expected to have at all.
Excuses are for wimps and undergrads. But first there was the earthquake that rocked Japan and then the tsunami. The aftershocks came. A nuclear catastrophe erupted and a snowstorm hit. In the days that followed many were quick to point out that disasters happen each day to people around the globe, but I don't feel that's a fair comparison. I don't mean to say that those suffering in Japan are not worse off than anyone else, though that may very well be, because I'm not interested in writing up a veritable who's who of worldwide victims, and I'm not interested in measuring levels of agony or injustice if such measurements were even possible. I mean to say that media coverage of these Japanese events has totally saturated the airwaves, print mediums and social networks in a way that is so all-encompassing. I woke up Friday morning, ate my granola and yogurt, sipped on a mug of strong coffee, and watched the world shift and change irreparably yet again. And in a small way, insignificant to anyone else, those moments have woven themselves into my life, too.
After a large-scale natural disaster I tend to retreat a little, grow uneasy. Maybe you do the same thing, too. I lie low. Do you know what to do? I don't. I sit glued to my television listening to the news reports and the stories, and I read the articles and the quick write-ups. I can't imagine it yet it stares me in the face. Mostly it makes me feel sad and helpless, but it also serves as a reminder of how fragile we all are, how delicate our lives are, like intricately woven spiderwebs.
They -- epic natural disasters -- render me speechless. How do I wax on about the wonders of chickpeas tossed into a lemony, rosemary-spiked casserole when such despair looms? Toward the end of the week I fell ill with a wicked case of the "stomach flu", ie. sleep for eighteen hours straight and wake up promptly at 8am in search of orange popsicles and slurpees; walk across the street in barely-combed hair, Birkenstock clogs and baggy yoga pants to acquire said slurpee and an orange freezie (sorry, no popsicles.) I clearly spent most of Friday sleeping and all of Saturday propped up on the couch catching up on B-rated movies and connecting with a 2L bottle of warm 7-Up.
That brings us back here, to Monday. Have I mentioned that I hate Mondays? Probably. I've been sticking mainly to the basics -- bland recipes unworthy of writing down at all. But there is one thing I have fallen in love with for the first time. I know I'm slow -- hang with me. Eventually I catch up, you know.
Yes. Toast, butter, honey, and sea salt. Wild blueberry honey, if we're being specific, though your favourite honey will work just fine. It's basic and doesn't require a recipe, but I've been happily eating it all week for breakfast. Sometimes it's just what you need -- or what I needed. And while new recipes are all well and good, I think it's nice sometimes to revert to the classics, even just for a little while, even just to be reminded how satisfying they can be. I feel uncomfortable writing more than this, to be honest. Life goes on, certainly, but a pause does some good, too. I for one could use a long pause.
That, and a bite of toast.