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Well, huh. So that's how one month without blogging goes by during a pandemic. It's a combination of whoosh, and slogginess, and what month is it anyway?
After four months we're settling into our pandemic habits. It is often not pretty, as those of us who are wearing our masks religiously cannot understand the resistance to this practice and
It is enjoying knitting a wonderful project (oooh, so pretty!) and sadly postponing visits to my elderly dad and Baby Wonderful. It's safe but sacrificial friendship via Zoom then watching a freshman class and their germs from all over the nation move in literally across the street.
In other words, it's optimism with a constant, unremitting undertone of frustration and dread.
One of my projects to keep my mind off that undertone has been my sourdough. As of this morning it is still alive, more elderly than any sourdough I've been able to baby along in the past. Although I have not named it (my hat is off to those who christened Bread Pitt, Emilio Yeastevez, and Jane Dough) I've been able to produce some pretty tasty baked goods.
It had reached the point a few weeks ago when Husband saw a couple of yummy loaves on the cooling rack and sighed.
"More bread?" he made the mistake of saying in a manner I interpreted as being weary. (He denies this. We have been in the same house a lot lately.)
I flounced off with a mutter about how SOME husbands would be PLEASED to have fresh bread on the table and that maybe some APPRECIATION for the industriousness involved and blah blah blah. (Yes, I'm adorable.)
After reconsideration, I realized that there are other things that can be made from sourdough starter so the next discard day I turned the Yeaster Bunnie (Hey! I think I just named it!) into some cinnamon rolls. They looked and smelled delicious but the last thing the three people now under our roof need are a full dozen cinnamon rolls.
One of my friend-iest friends has been especially wonderful about letting me be all shrieky about masks and the lack thereof, so I offered her a couple of the warm rolls. She lives way across town, on the other side of the river and railroad tracks, but Boy#3 and I were headed for the Big City so we would drop them off on our way out of town.
My hands were full of knitting and masks so Three carried the little container of rolls to the car and we headed out. As we pulled into Friend's driveway, I asked him where he had put it. His eyes widened.
"It was on the top of the car so you could grab it as you got in," he told me. "Didn't you see it?"
I immediately called Husband to check the driveway. No, it wasn't there, so we headed back across town for replacements. With that container of rolls safely in hand we made the turnaround and kept our eyes peeled for the original black container. One block, two, eight, and still no rolls.
We were over the railroad tracks and just moving onto the bridge when Three suddenly hit the brakes. There, in the middle of the right lane, was a small black plastic container. I jumped out and rescued it. Even though they'd been sitting upside down in the middle of the road for 20 minutes, the rolls were fine--warm and soft.
We gave Friend the replacement rolls, but for the next couple of days I had a roadkill roll with my morning coffee. They were delicious, and I grinned to think of their grand adventure.
It is, I think, a parable for the days we're living.
This is absolutely, completely, and emphatically not the way I would have chosen to live 2020. We were speeding down the road not realizing we were on top of the car until we slid off upside down into the middle of the lane.
But it is entirely possible that when we come through this, as we must and we will, we will have so much more appreciation for our lives and our loves and the many, many things we had taken for granted.
It will be delicious.
