Moose in the Kitchen

Greetings! I do still exist in some form, but it’s not a form I recognize at the moment. I thought I’d kicked my flu in its germ-ridden posterior, but by last Tuesday some form of wasting ague had knocked me over again. I did nothing but sleep last week, plowing through the year’s allotment of sick time before the end of March. I haven’t been laid up like that since I got the chicken pox in fourth grade, a time I remember fondly for the vast quantities of strictly verboten chocolate pudding and hours spent watching Duck Tales (woo-oo!) with my hands in oven mitts to keep me from peeling the skin from my bones and sticking my entire carapace in the freezer.

So, yeah, I’m better. But every last routine I’d managed to drill into my lazy carcass has vanished. Lack of exercise was sending my squirrel brain into trollish overdrive, and writing – forget it. You know what happens if you don’t write, exercise, or shower for a week? You completely lose your email game (and all ability to formulate a recognizable sentence), your jeans suddenly fit like exuberantly-filled sausage casings, and the fine dusting of plague starts resembling a thick coating of slime. You’re welcome. I will never mention this again.

Thanks to a random day off today, I went for a run through Golden Gate Park to admire the cherry blossoms (it’s easy to marvel at blossoms when your “run” is more a “casual stroll in running sneakers”) and work off some of my excess neuroses. Then I tended to the neglected wasteland of my life. Which, in Moose-ese, apparently translates to “make cheesecake.”

My parking tickets aren’t paid and I’m not entirely sure what floorboard my PG&E bill crawled under, but the cheesecake is cooling and lamb is marinating in white wine, garlic, and rosemary. I have returned.