The Cookies Look Like Hell, but they Taste Okay

Here’s the deal. I could write about the morning walk I took with friends through the reservation; the way the river drifted like slow glass through motionless cattails until two kayakers (one with a dog no less), dimpled the water as they paddled by. I could tell you how we shivered in the 59 degree shade until we emerged in a clearing where a shingled boathouse rests in full sun—and that I would have ransomed my cat for a cup of coffee plus an hour stretched out on the built-in bench lining the rails. Instead we kept walking.

I could tell you about the boardwalk that meanders through the low areas in the woods and how it heaved and tilted like a drunk stumbling across the pond—we weaved and leaned as a result, and how, on the edge of the path, amid a rippling forest of green wetland foliage, one friend found a brilliant red blossom.

Next, I could describe the after-walk cup of coffee I finally drank in a small-town Starbucks wannabe, and how I thought the caffeine-buzz resurrected me. Through its electric-charge I drove home, and then remembered, backed out and visited two banks, the post office, and returned to our chilly house to write this post. With a comforter pulled over my shoulders and the computer on my lap, for the first time in the eighteen months since I’ve been pseudo “at home,” I fell dead-dog asleep—in the middle of the day. No kidding.  It's possible there were snores involved.

I could tell you all that, and I guess I just did. But I’ll add this. It wasn’t until late in the afternoon, after twiddling around reading blogs, organizing photographs, picking up the house and deciding that the only way the day would be salvaged was to bake chocolate chip cookies, that I came-to enough to produce this post—which distracted me.  Darn it all, I didn't put in enough flour. 

Some days are just like that.