End of Day Cooking

Lying on the living room floor after work, in my mind I walk through the steps involved in making the quiche I’ve been putting off all week.  I’ll have to cut up the sausage, whisk the eggs, thaw the spinach, and shred the cheese.  I’ll have to wash the dishes and wipe down the counters afterward.  I’m pretty sure the compost bucket is full; afterwards I should bring that out. 

Here on the floor it seems like too much to bear.  All those steps.  All that standing.  All those details. 

I wanted to make quiche because I imagined it would be simple and quick.  The sausage needs to get used up, and it’s been out of the freezer for a few days.  Time’s-a-wasting.  It would be good to get this done and out of the way. 

One.  Two.  Three.  I hoist myself up and move into the kitchen.  Mechanically I go through the steps: chopping, shredding, assembling, whisking – – Ignore the burning in your shoulder blade – – I cut corners on the fresh herbs because I just don’t have the stamina to deal with them.  Not noticing the size of the holes in the peppershaker, I pour way too much into the egg mixture.  I swear out loud.  Add another egg and a little more milk – – Ignore the tingling numbness in your arm – – I pour the eggs over the rest – – Just a few more minutes and you can lie down again – – Into the oven it goes – – The home stretch.

Wait.  Ants!  I should probably wash the dishes and wipe down the counters before the ants come out in droves to scavenge among my dirty dishes – – Ignore the stabbing in your ribcage – – Water in the basin, I soak and scrub the knives and forks and bowls and cutting board – – Just a little longer and you can lie down.

Dishes washed, counters cleared, quiche in oven, I seek refuge on the hardwood floor and stare at the ceiling for a few seconds before curling up on my left side, and wait.