I stopped my schoolwork to put on a pot of split pea soup, and talk to you for a minute.
The last month of a semester feels pressed, cramped, and ready; pregnant with expectations, demands, and opportunites for one more chance. Goldman, Gilman, Freidan. My tired eyes have stared at this screen for hours trying to formulate sentences that capture the essence of feminism into a seven page essay that will be turned in, graded, and then stacked on my shelf. When I told a specific family member that I was writing a paper on feminism she said, "You know, we are no further along than when we burned our f***ing bras." After trying to incorporate that into my essay, I couldn't make it work.
I feel right at the edge of change. I know you must know that feeling. When you know what is behind you, you know what is beside you, but the up ahead is a bit fuzzy? I think it looks bright, but just not clear. Today, at this desk, with the pouring rain outside and the rhythm of moving fingers making words, the unknown is exciting.
The soup smells so good. I did a variation on the above recipe, and added garam masala, mustard seeds, and anise. The spice makes the house feel warmer.
My next to-do is to read over Karl Marx and prepare for class discussion. Then, I plan to welcome Stephen home from the pouring down rain with a bowl of hot soup.
Thanks for allowing my interruption. Now, everybody, back to work.
p.s. stephen was a pirate and I was a chef for halloween. I thought you might like to see.
