If I tell you I have been writing and editing today, the words are tidy, the actions sound entirely civilised. But I feel like I have been dragging my intestines out. I feel like my brain is so swollen with story it’s not healthy, it’s gone too far. Impatience growls, rattles the sharp points of my teeth.
Big House Spider climbs the woodchip paper; loses his footing several times, dangles by a leg or two, clowns me from this perturbing desk fug.
Time to get out of my chair, clatter some pots in the kitchen. Soup is not on the menu today, and on our budget, the meal plan must be respected. Macaroni cheese is the plat du jour, so I can simmer up some sauce to soothe and settle this story-cholesterolled mind. Opening the fridge and surveying the size of the cheese block Mr brought home; it was on offer, of course; that should ease the growl and get me grinning.
I take a cheese cleaver to the cheddar brick, take the cross section to the grater, pare it down to crumbs. Fat slaps in the warm pan, loses shape to heat. Flour sifts, a cloud of it, a dry drizzle. Under the paddle of the catalyst spoon, molecules bond. Into the paste milk drips, incorporates, the pile of cheese tumbles; stirring gets hypnotic. Somewhere in the triangle of medicine, science and magic is cooking.