As soon as I took the cardboard box out of the microwave, I realized I’d overcooked the leftovers. The box was really hot, and the sizzling sound it was emitting didn’t bode well for the pesto and mozzarella cream sauce inside. I hate it when that happens.
Still, it’s food. I’m not in the mood for either a bologna or salami sandwich, and that’s what else is currently edible in the kitchen. Well, except for pickles. I love pickles, and I’ve been known to drink the juice right from the jar, but it doesn’t make for much of a meal.
I jab a fork into the now disappointingly overcooked cavatelli and try a mouthful. The flavor is still good, but the texture isn’t. I put the container on the coffee table and think about what else I need to do today.
I’m not much for working on Sunday. It must be some hold-over from my youth. Sundays were for visiting Grandpa and Grandma, and going to the cemetery, playing euchre and whatever I had recently mastered at piano lessons. And reading. Always reading.
My phone chimes and there’s a message from the library. A book is due tomorrow and can’t be renewed. So my Sunday is effectively planned out from this point forward. I have to finish the book and it’s not a short one.
Maybe I won’t have time to get ice-cream after all.