I scuffed my way through another week of very little writing.
I’m not a person who feels that writing every day is necessary for a man to refer to himself as a writer. I believe that ideas must be allowed to flow freely, and when a good one comes through, I want to direct it to park in a space inside my head until I can utilize it in the scribblings.
There was little traffic in my mind this week.
I did, however, complete most of the deliveries to the editor for the contents meant for book number three; I should have finished all of it by the end of February. I exhaled one deep breath, and it lasted all week. I like to revel in the completion of things. Jumping into the next one is for overachievers. I am not one of those.
I celebrated with a homecooked breakfast today. Saturdays are an excellent day to fry bacon. I found that there were two slices left in the refrigerator drawer. That would suffice for both myself and Ellie to have one ration. Nope, not enough for a proper rasher; still enough for us.
My epiphany for a blog post came when I looked for the makings of my toast. Sure, it’s just warm bread, but I knew I was running low. I’ve been working on the same stale loaf for about two weeks.
The bread bag only contained heels, and that’s because I’m not a fan of heels. I’m not going to tell you a lie; there have been many times that I would toss the two end slices of a loaf of bread. I’d have given it nary a second thought in my early years.
Today is different. I’ve not had any spiritual epiphanies, but I did realize that I’m a bit spoiled if I can throw away the heels, usually to the squirrels, but sometimes in the garbage.
My thoughts turned to the faces of all those folks in Ukraine—again—this morning. I bet hundreds of thousands of people would relish the heel from a loaf of bread. The only reason I can enjoy so many perfect slices of bread is because of the protection provided by these two heels. It was a saggy-pajama-bottom-clad-shredded-gray-hoodie-kind of an epiphany.
Living here has afforded me the ability to purchase the whole loaf of bread and then to squander two essential parts of that same loaf.
Toasted, they were perfect. I even had real butter to make them slide down a bit easier. Soaked in the residual yolk— left behind— allowed Ellie to emit no complaints about her well-caught share of the leftover toast bits.
Why it takes war on the other side of the world to make me change my toasting habits cannot be forgiven.
Today, I am thankful for heels.
From the Jagged Edge, I remain,
*Thanks for reading the stuff, thanks for the overwhelming support for my two books. Thank you all for the support through the BuyMeACoffee app. Watch out for each other this week. Whatever your form of spiritual rejuvenation is, please direct some of that to our battered friends in Europe.
**I need to give a shout out to my friend Jennifer at Tidal Creek Farm in Harrington, Maine. Her bread (I’ve never thrown away a heel from Jennifer’s sourdough bread…ever) is simply the best. I found her last summer, and when I entered her little establishment, standing just inside the door, I found a faithful follower of my FB writings. Then, on another visit, I ran into a family friend that I haven’t seen in twenty-years. This is only mentioned because really great people have also found Tidal Creek Farm’s bread. It is the best bread I’ve ever consumed. I used one of Jennifer’s photos for this piece; she was kind, and approved of it, when I asked. You can find her on Facebook under Tidal Creek Farms, she is considering shipping some of her bread, but you cannot have my loaves. She has been told. If you are in Downeast Maine, and you want the best homemade bread I have ever partaken of, reach out to Jen. Again, do not take mine. Thanks for the photo, Jennifer. TC