Another day in the life

Here’s how the system works around here: Technically, I’m retired, but I go to work for half the day then spend the other half trying to figure out what to cook for dinner. It’s not like I don’t have a plan, I’m just not sure if I have all the ingredients.

Just to be safe, I usually make a stop at the grocery store on my way home. Get this or that. Avocados. Bottled water. Coffee. A new rice maker.

Out of all the kitchen appliances I use, the rice maker gets the most wear and tear. So much so that it recently went kaput. It was a good rice maker. It worked faithfully for 12 years — which is 87 in human years. We gave it a good soldier’s burial, right underneath an old oak tree. No telling what the future owners of our house will think if they ever dig it up.

(Just kidding. We gave it a Viking’s funeral. Placed it in the middle of a wooden canoe, surrounded it with bags of rice, and burned it right in the middle of Lake Bob Sandlin.)

(Just kidding, again. We threw it out with the rest of the non-working appliances.)

My wife works at a local bank. When she gets home, she walks the dog around the block. I fix the supper. When she’s finished, we sit down to eat. Maybe read a book. Maybe watch a TV show. Maybe talk about this or that.

One time we talked about the different cars we owned. Another time we talked about the history of the spoon. Last night we talked about septic tanks and haunted houses. There’s no telling what we’ll talk about tonight. Or maybe we’ll just sit in silence and see who’ll be the first one to break it.

(She can go hours and hours without saying a single word. I have a feeling she wished I had the same talent.)

“Have you noticed we never talk about socks anymore?” I say.

She looks up from what she’s reading and says, “Hold that thought.”

Thirty minutes later: “OK. What were you saying?”

And I say, “Hmmmm. I have no idea. You did that on purpose, didn’t you.”

“Socks.”

“Right. Cavemen wore socks. They were mostly just leaves and grass. A few thousand years later, the Greeks wore matted animal hair under their sandals. And then later on, the Romans came up with fitted socks made out of strips of leather or fabric. Somewhere around 400 AD, the ancient Egyptians made the first knitted socks. Everybody was wearing socks by the Middle Ages. And then at some point in history they became fashionable, expensive, and the poor working-class started knitting their own, which beget the French Revolution, The Revolutionary War, the Civil War, Korea, Vietnam, The Gulf, and now cheap socks abound in packages of four or eight, they last about a month, they’re too small, too thin, they make my feet itch, and all I want is a pair of quality socks — polka dot, striped, it doesn’t matter — that will be comfortable and last forever. So, I’ve decided I’m going to knit my own socks.”

My wife is now sound asleep.

Three days ago, I made a plan to bake some salmon filets for supper. Salmon, a batch of greens, and maybe some brown rice and lentils. I put everything on my shopping list, went to the store, bought avocados, grapes, cookies, cat food, a bag of gluten-free tortillas, and a new rice cooker. I completely forgot about the salmon and greens. So, I’m heading back to the store when I finish this paragraph. Like I said, that’s really how the system works around here.