Some Saturday in late September, I was determined to finish Kristin Lavrandatter. I had about 200 pages left – an amount that doesn’t seem like much given that the book is 1,124 pages – and I would crank them out in 48 hours, along with a few essays if it was the last thing I did.
It was barely the first thing I did.
I woke up well past 10 that Saturday, trying not to feel guilty about it because I am more physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted than I’ve ever been in my life, but I was annoyed because 10am may as well be 4pm as far as I’m concerned. The day was basically over.
Then, I go downstairs to find a pot with chicken in it boiling over on the stove. Boiling over chicken is a disgusting smell, especially at well past 10 in the morning. Saturday mornings should smell like fresh brewed coffee, Earl Grey tea, bacon, and blueberry pancakes, or sourdough toast with Irish butter. They should not smell like boiled over chicken. Come to think of it, no part of the day should smell like this. Boiled over chicken is the smell of boredom.
“What is happening?” I croaked to anyone who would listen. Hadley was the lucky one.
“What?”
“What do you mean, what?” I said, pointing to the stove. “Do you see this?”
No, she did not see it because she was not in the kitchen. But goodness, couldn’t she smell it? Or maybe the smell dulled her senses. I believe this could happen. I believe boiled over chicken is that powerful, which is why I was acting like Hadley and I were being attacked.
“We have to do something!” I screamed and proceeded to do nothing because I am of the sort to point out a problem and do nothing about it.
Hadley got up off the couch where she was sitting and in a simple yet effective move, pushed the pot off the burner.
All was calm. All was bright.
But not for me. For me, the damage had been done. These two incidents – oversleeping and boiled over chicken – that most human beings would consider benign completely rattled me and threw me off my K-L game. But damn it, what good is a well-laid plan if it’s not followed? So I sat down in my reading chair in my writing room, and opened the story.
Read the rest of my last essay on Kristin Lavransdatter for Project Redux, here.
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