Let’s do lunch!
Ain’t nobody gonna know, but you and I, and if we don’t want to tell anyone, well, we simply won’t! Besides, it’s kind of a personal thing, don’t you think?
Trying to carve off a few pounds always gets a bit dicey. First off, who likes to admit that they need to drop a few, and especially if every waking minute of ones life (and most of the dreaming ones, too), involve food substances.
I’m putting my little sourdough, Alpha-Omega, on hiatus for a while. Oh, I’m sure this will be the most major part of the hurdle for me. Bread is my vice. Some folks do drugs, some take to booze. I’m a flour-junkie. Throw that stuff on me, splash with water, sprinkle a dash of sea salt and I’m in all sorts of trouble.
Is there a 12-step program?
This addiction is so bad that I am seriously considering moving my handwritten notes into a locked vault. You know, one of those safe deposit boxes down at the bank? Yes. The problem has become this heinous.
I should have known I was headed down a road of dereliction when I began noting time and temperature fluctuations in all things flora and fauna. My habit progressed to the point that I was hoarding stashes of dried yeast in crevices and crannies of the fridge, freezer and any available cabinet. Post-it notes, freezer labels and plastic baggies replaced binary 1′s and 0′s. Who needs a telephone or computer when flour and water can sustain the living soul. Literally.
And then it happened:
I’d like to think it was a sudden, planned approach, but it came more slowly than that.
It was winter. Stretch tights, stretch pants, stretched dough. It all became one in the same.
Today I looked at the calendar. No. I. Really. Looked. At. The. Calendar.
Daylight’s savings time arrives in less than two weeks.
Folks venture out into the wilderness of the concrete jungle in the spring.
Neighbors will be expecting to see me.
I’d like not to give them such a shock.
Tomorrow, meet me back here. We’ll do lunch.
Hannah and I look forward to your visit.