It occurred to me, as I was polishing off my breakfast bowl of cold pasta with nettle pesto sauce, washed down with my fourth cup of tepid milky coffee, that the quality of my diet has gone to hell in a hand basket. I contemplated last night's dinner: slice of multi-grain bread, slightly stale, with a schmear of cream cheese scraped off its wrapping paper that I just couldn't throw away, topped with a half-inch of snipped chives, topped off with a few shreds of smoked salmon. Washed down with a half-glass of savignon blanc. Followed by two Dutch almond cookies. Followed by a cup of ginger-lemongrass tea. Followed by a few pages of Willa Cather. Although I think writing down every last thing you eat and drink is a good idea, I am too scared to do it.
Other oddities: pulling out a load of laundry to find hypodermics, and lots of unrecognizable vegetation intermingled among my barn clothes. I did finally discover that the soggy mass of greenish was the remains of the sage I had been drying. Apparently, it dislodged from its bindings and dropped into the washing machine when my back was turned, sneaky little herb. It probably was tired of hanging there, month after month, waiting to be crumbled and put in a jar in the cupboard.
Eyeglasses: I have many, but I have a favorite pair. I put these down and forget where on an average of six times a day. This morning, I found them in the refrigerator.
Are the wrappings coming loose? Wheels falling off the wagon? Nah. I'm just going through Spring.