Monday, November 28, 2011

Apple pie and PB&J

Every time I sit down to write I always have an idea in my head of what I'd like to talk about.  But by the time the words begin to physically appear the idea seems pointless and uninteresting.  This morning for example, I started to write about my uncharacteristically elaborate breakfasts I've been making.  They end up resembling so sort of breakfast burrito.  I’ll make a quesadilla and plop a fried egg, black beans, fried onion, homemade hash browns, peas, and salsa on top.  As many know, I’m no cook.  But every day I’ve been making this unbelievably tasty and unusually complex meal. 

Now, I’m still not sure if any of this is worth writing about, but since it’s already written down it should be noted that breakfast appears to become the exception to my talentless cooking.  Last night for dinner I had a slice of apple pie and PB&J (in that order).  The dinner a third grader would make if left home-alone. 

I’m trying hard to not allow myself to start choking on the obvious symbolism my meals have become to my daily life. 

See, I wasn’t being honest earlier. When I first sat down and started typing I was writing about waiting.  Every day here in Michigan I have been waiting for Potato to finish his program so we can go home.  Every day I try and find things to do to making the waiting easier.  I apply to job after job waiting to hear back.  I make jewelry in waiting for the next show.  I check my email every day waiting to find out if I was accepted into art school.  Every day I wake hopeful but the waiting begins to wear on me (hence the apple pie and PB&J). 

It’s okay though.  I knew what I was getting into.  Anyway, the day I start having toast for breakfast is the day you have to start worrying.