Manyu has been dealing with a stomach ailment for the past couple of months. The primary treatment is a diet so restrictive that she and I now eat separately. The one exception is breakfast, where each morning she prepares a double batch of oatmeal with poached eggs and brings me a bowl while I write. I don’t care for egg in my oatmeal, but Manyu needs it as her morning source of protein.
The diet Manyu is on does not include dairy or sweeteners or anything else that tastes good, so my oatmeal is usually bland. Today, however, I was hopeful because it showed up with a purple tint. I assumed that Manyu had tossed blueberries into the cereal while it simmered, and while blueberries are no substitute for brown sugar or maple syrup, they were bound to add a little sweetness to the gruel.
The first spoonful was disappointing. There was a new flavor I could not identify, but it definitely wasn’t blueberry. I sifted through the oatmeal with my spoon and brought up chunks of purple sweet potato. Sweet potatoes are as misnamed as blueberries; one is not blue, and the other isn’t sweet. I got through my bowl of purple oatmeal by noting that 1) the concoction must be nutritious and 2) I would be reaching into our leftover Halloween candy come lunchtime.
Writing about hot cooked breakfast cereal is a good indication that the past week was uneventful. The only other highlight of the last few days has been finding out that our public library now has a tool library and its collection includes a twenty-foot long tree pruner. Without ever stepping on a ladder, I was able to lop off three tree branches that were hitting the roof of my house. Would it be ungracious of me to borrow the library’s tree pruner and then point out that the money spent on DIY tools could have been used to buy hard copies of the novels the library currently carries only as eBooks?
I state that very little happened last week but, of course, the election took place on Tuesday. I’ve been living as a hermit ever since, but am discovering that blocking out politics means missing out on other things as well. I will hole up, hunker down, and stay ignorant a bit longer, but eventually may have to come out of my self-imposed isolation.
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