Tales of a Very Tired, Very Bad Cook

[Listen to an audio version of this blog here.]

I got home late, and I still needed to pack. First I needed to do laundry, so I drug my happy little ass upstairs with a fistful of quarters and a bag of soiled clothes. Glamorous.

An hour later, I was un-filling sandbags that I’d filled incorrectly, sweat puddling in the armpits of my t-shirt, a friendly neighbor stopping by to see if I was “okay.” My cat needed brushing, the trashed needed to be taken out, and the laundry still wasn’t done. My stomach had been grumbling for hours and all I had in my tiny fridge were 4 brown eggs, a bag of baby carrots, 3 sad oranges, and two cans of white wine. I cracked open a can of wine while folding my laundry because I am nothing if not a basic bitch.

Fold-fold, drink-drink, hum-hum. My brain gets stuck on one song at a time and for the last 5 weeks, it’s been Halsey’s “New Americana.” There is no good (or bad) reason for this. Halfway through belting out the chorus, I heard a knock on my door. It was another neighbor, here to say hello. We chatted a bit and he asked if I wanted to order some Thai food. No, I answered, I had food I needed to eat before my trip so it wouldn’t go bad. He looked at me skeptically. “What do you have?”

“Four brown eggs, baby carrots, oranges,” I paused to hold up my wine can, “and wine,” I…