Tapas Tuesday

Stupid Time Change.

So much of the order of life depends upon waking up at a particular moment in order to be able to do a set number of things, like cope with reality, and not be so tired that it seems the world is going to collapse under the weight of sorrow. It seems ridiculous that this should have to be said in black and white, but somehow, every year, someone lounging in a grey and taupe office is allowed to sit there with a stupid Calender, muttering to himself (oh my word, I really hope it’s not a woman) finally letting the finger fall and sending out some boring government email (assuming it actually is a government email) announcing the two moments of daylight savings time. As if daylight could be saved. Saved from what? Poor shuffling demoralized northeasterners who’s will to live is reduced to one single daylight thread?

The thing is, for the past many many many months I, indeed I, who am Not A Morning Person, have beat my body as per the instructions of St. Paul and have slowly come to the point of being able to wake up at five o’clock in the morning. I know. I know. It’s like the whole universe has come undone. And why have I engaged in this painstaking insanity? you might reasonably ask. For one single reason, and one only. To have time to write.

I, yea even I, super woman that I am, sniff, cannot assemble two coherent words together in the presence of many roaring and demanding children. It is not possible. I’m not the amazing, but probably lying, mother who can have a work space in the middle of “all the action” so that “all the creative juices can flow”. I’m not the tender and kind hearted mother who can be interrupted five hundred million times and speak gently to each child, “Oh sweetie,” has never come forth from my lips, “you’ve interrupted mommy again. Can you wait until I have FINISHED THE SENTENCE.”

But now, in one bureaucratic sweep of the key, my self discipline and toil has been washed away with the tears of the nation. It’s just too bad. Instead of waking up at 5, I’ve woken up at 6 which means now I have to do all the other stuff that life requires, and not write. And for the next many weeks I will struggle to get it back bitterly remembering, day by day, that cows do not adjust the times of their milkings just because the government says they have to, nor does wheat, which nobody can eat anyway, grow more robustly because someone in an office told it to. Whereas I, I obediently rearrange the order of my days according the mandate of the state.

So, given all of that, I’m instituting Tapas Tueaday. A little lamb meatball with just a hint of tamarind, a little flamenco egg, a shaving of prosciutto, a little tray of roasted tomatoes, a generous helping of olives, some little sweet pepper wrapped in bacon, a modicum of wine perhaps, and, for the children, golden crusty slices of bread gently painted with olive oil.

Oh, and I made up for there being no lenten Aldi flowers last week by buying double this week.