Bad Soup

No matter what time I go to bed these days, I wake up at seven and can't, for the life of me, stay in bed longer than 7:30. I hate it! At least at the beach I could wake up and watch the sun rising but here in Lloyd it's not that big of a deal. Oh sure, it's pretty but it's not nearly as dramatic as that big red eye coming up out of the water with the pelicans flying by and the waves sounding like the very breathing of the planet.

Well, I have laundry going and I'll hang it out on the line when it's done, let the sun kiss and give it sweetness.

I made a soup last night. I pretty much hated it. I need to quit making soup. I take one new thing (in this case, a bag of pink beans) and add a bunch of old stuff from the refrigerator and season and simmer and sometimes it's good and other times it's not great and yet, there's always too much, even if it's the best soup in the whole wide world, which it never is anyway.

I guess I got the Sunday blues. Mr. Moon will be home today, which is a real good thing. I want to have the garden planted by the time he gets here because he worked so hard to get it ready to plant and that's like a gift he toiled to give me, the fresh breast of the earth, tilled and laid bare, ready to receive green life. But I want beds. I want raised beds but that's a whole other project and not one I'm apt to take on today, by myself.
Ah well. I'll probably just plant my crooked rows and let it be. I feel like I never do anything as well as it could be done. "If something is worth doing, it's worth doing right." That's what my grandfather always said and dammit, he did everything right. His compost pile was black and teeming with worms and he pitch-forked it over every morning when he took out the coffee grounds and the grapefruit rinds. I don't actually remember any fresh vegetables that he grew except for one year, tomatoes, but I sure do remember him turning that compost.
He wore boots. And a safari helmet. I thought he was the greatest man who ever lived.
I'm pretty sure he wouldn't like me much if he met me now.
I don't do anything right.

I know that's not really true but some days, that's just how you feel.

Like today.

Well, the washing machine has come to the end of its cycle. Jessie is up and it's a nice cool morning here in Lloyd. I may not do anything right but I suppose it's best to do something, anything, rather than just sit here and talk about what a loser I am. Even planting crooked rows of lettuce is better than not getting the plants and seeds in the ground. And I'm a very good clothes-hanger. That I'll admit to.
Which...so what? Not like on my death bed people are going to stand around and weep and say, "Oh my god! She was absolutely the best clothes-hanger! What will the planet do without her clothes-hanging ability?"

There will probably be soup in the freezer though, months and maybe eons after I am dead.
Not very good soup.

But it'll be there. A little frozen tribute to my inability to make small, delicious portions of soup and someone will go through the freezer and say, "What in god's name is this?"
And someone else will say, "I have no idea. Throw it out."

Sundays.

Yuck.