Plan A was to run a round of errands in the afternoon. Plan B was to catch up on the overdue Portico pages that have so alarmingly piled up (several books, three New Yorker stories, a movie, a play, and a concert). In the end, I settled on Plan C, because, after lunch, I felt both sleepy and gassy. The gassiness contraindicated gadding about, and the sleepiness ruled out writing. So I sat in my reading chair and swallowed Jonathan Dee’s The Privileges.

The day wasn’t a total loss. After the pizza that I ordered when Kathleen announced her homecoming, I sat down at my writing computer and sketched a lot of notes. It isn’t the same as writing, by any means, but at least it captures the raw material for writing that I so easily forget if I don’t write things down.

Why do I ever think that I’ll be able to remember something? Oh, there are plenty of things that I have no trouble remembering — but I’m never cautioned to write them down. The mystery at the moment is the crunchy alternative to sliced apple that I hit on when I adapted the curried chicken salad from Island, the Madison avenue bistro that Kathleen and I head off to on the odd Sunday afternoon. What can it have been? And how can I forget something that was perfect.  

Drop me a line at rjk@dailyblague.com
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