One of my dearest friends I have ever had is an in-law. When I was one month old, born into a world at war, she was born in another country occupied by enemy armies.
Who would ever have foretold that future friendship…
She rang me this morning, telling a tale of woe about how she had gone to get her passport and bankbooks from the place she always hides them, only to find none of them was there – and she has no memory whatsoever of moving them. Nor can she find them now. And her house has not been broken into.
I sympathise. Age does that sort of thing to you.
So after this morning’s phone call, I go into the kitchen to put on some soup. I made the stock yesterday out of some beef scrag ends (yes, there are still housewives who don’t buy their stock in cans or cubes) , but shoved it in the frig afterwards without straining it or anything because I was on my way out to a birthday party of an even older friend.
I go to the frig , get out the stock and strain it over the sink, throwing away the stock and preserving the useless bits and pieces.
Definitely an aargh moment.
And this from someone who thinks she can write a 3-book trilogy containing over half a million words spanning 10 years in the life of four complex interlocked lands with different cultures, a story of war, love, magic, hope, courage and battle in the lives of four main protagonists struggling against the machinations of a group of amoral villains with a totally greed-oriented agenda.
Talk about hubris. I can’t even strain the soup stock properly.