I want to braise more meats. I want to braise meats more.
I can't say or think the following without feeling like a d-bag, but maybe typing it will be different: we've got a case of the Februaries around here. Nope, still feel like a d-bag. But, grr, it's true. It's chilly and rainy in Athens, Georgia, and the people in the city of my provenance are under multiple feet of glorious snow, and I want snow, something to make this month, these days, stand out, and I'm feeling the urge to buy things like small appliances, rice cookers and slow cookers, and I read Williams-Sonoma magazine hungrily and imagine--even though the thought makes me want to kill myself a little--being the kind of person who fresh squeezes juice every morning in between sliding Dutch babies out of the appropriate pan, looking smart in a crisp monogrammed apron, and I long incessantly for insipid things, and the great, promising writing streak I was on has vanished like hair down the drain, and I feel like that drain, more or less, drained and clogged at the same time, and I'm tired of music and of TV and of books and of people and most of all of the stupid internet, and I'm tired of myself and all of my creations, and I just want to go somewhere remote and sit in a small, wallpapered bedroom and stare at the wallpaper or out the window until this all blows over. And maybe someone could bring me breakfast on a tray once in a while.
You know it's bad when you teach Gilman's "The Yellow Wallpaper" and find yourself sort of envying the narrator.
You know it's bad when you teach Gilman's "The Yellow Wallpaper" and find yourself sort of envying the narrator.
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