in which domesticity is once again revealed as my strong suit

Returned from the cafe where I was intermittently working on the novel and cooing (literally cooing, like a pigeon) at a dachshund enrobed in a casual piece of purple knitwear, and where BW was intermittently doing something related to philosophy (it's philosophy, so that's the best I can do) and playing some computer game involving bubbles and towers, I was greeted by an enormous defrosting pile of black bananas. Sometimes I hate my former self.

My self of this morning, as I recall, was sick of seeing those erstwhile frozen black bananas in the freezer each day, so ignobly did they obscure one's way to the vodka. So before heading out to the liver clinic, my morning self put them on the counter to defrost, and there they absolutely were this afternoon when I returned from the cafe, looking for all the world like a mound of turds. There was no choice but to make cinnamon chocolate-chip banana bread. A double batch, because I obviously don't know how to buy bananas for one.

My kitchen is a small, somewhat operationally unwieldy kitchen, that often involves stacking things on top of other things in order to make even a turkey sandwich. However, this does not at all explain how I managed to crack three eggs not over the bowl, or even the counter, but right over the middle of the floor, where the rug is. Three. How my depth perception could be so off escapes me. (This morning at the liver clinic my doctor informed me that if I ever observe myself turning yellow, bruising easily, or feeling confused, to call 911. Um, 911.)

Annoyed, I decided to take a break. I would check the mail. After all, eggs are easier to clean up once they've hardened, right? Sure. Let's go with that. This is probably the first day of mail in months that has not yielded some medical bill or other. Small but not insignificant pleasures! Instead, there was just one envelope. A thin envelope. In the return-address corner, the address of a residency to which I'd applied in October. I opened it, expecting the usual "sorry, lots of applicants, apply again, best of luck with your work" spiel. No. This letter had taken the time, as one of its forbears had done, to inform me that my already-published story was "disturbing in a way [I] might not have intended" and that I might "revisit the story to investigate ways [I] might more diplomatically express the experience of illness for young people." What in the world is it about that story that offends people so much? Am I not a diplomat? I am a Libra, after all. Weird though it may sound, this makes me strangely happy. You know, what's so wrong with stories being war? Straight to the top, baby. Apparently offending people all the way.

When I got upstairs, the eggs were still there on the rug, gelling. 911.

If you'd like to make some of your own banana bread, here's the recipe I used, courtesy of Orangette.