It is well past midnight in my house. This may very well be one of those nights that turns into morning while I'm still awake. I don't want this to happen, but it seems my friend gave me real coffee for my 9pm biscotti, and not decaf. Oh, well. After drugging myself with various things I gave up and started reading. Middle grade novels are one of the only means I have of cooling my nervous system down when I can't sleep and I'm afraid of how horrible the next day will be; tonight I started Gregor the Overlander and it's lived up to the hype.
Half an hour ago I accepted that I shouldn't ignore the empty feeling in my stomach and peeled myself out of bed to rummage around in the pantry. I was relieved to find the carton of broth I always leave there in case I need it one day, and always forget when I'm making soup. It's a personal carton of Kettle and Fire chicken bone broth. 19g of protein per carton. And then I saw the package of stellini, the little starlet noodles I bought probably two years ago. Perfect.
I got a pot going for the stellini and microwaved the broth. While it all came together I made rice, set out some navy beans to soak, and put away the dishes. Almost done. Seven minutes for the stellini felt like fifteen.
I pulled down the mug of broth and added a spoonful of the salted pasta water before straining and adding the noodles. I tasted the broth. Needs some salt, I thought, and maybe some herbs, when I remembered the paper bag in my fridge. Yesterday morning, I'd woken up in Ash's house in Yorkville, and Elvira and I picked tomatoes and peppers and herbs in her garden.
I pulled out the thyme and stripped it for my soup, thinking, soups really are just complicated teas, and I think most people would hate this, as I let the hard woody leaves fall directly in. But I like it that way. I kind of like the woody bits in my teeth.
How sweet it would be for life to work this way all the time — herbs from your friends, gathered at breakfast. Ash made me and Elvira and Ethan these toasts with whipped goat cheese and a homemade tomato jam, also from her garden. Yellow tomatoes cooked down to a jelly orange.
Having been in Illinois for the first half of September, just me and my dogs, I'd forgotten what the air feels like in the city. I'd gotten used to walking every two or three hours, to country air, to having a lot of grass to myself. At home there are all these places to lay in the sun, protected by spruce trees and hedges. DC isn't even that big or busy of a city, but the air has felt oppressive today. HVAC office air, Subway tunnel winds. Air conditioning at home, decades of cigarette smoke at the apartment where we had craft night and I drank my intended nightcap.
I miss my dogs.
When Ethan and Elvira arrived in Chicago last Friday, it took me almost a full day to remember how to have conversations with people. I hadn't been speaking in complete sentences to Milo or to Finn, really, and most of what I'd been saying were command words. Everything else was silent, intuitive communication. Looks and pawing and petting, deep sighs, heads resting on laps.
It's obvious to me that the shape of my life cannot accommodate a dog, but I was surprised at how noticeably stable my mood felt, what with these two to take care of. I didn't have to think too much, didn't feel alone. I watched cartoons and wrote. I cooked an elaborate dinner. I called some friends, but I never had to perform or do anything except be with the boys. It was a perfect ten days.
