Quick! Administer cinnamon toast! I'm fading!!
I awoke this morning and discovered that an hour had been stolen clean out from under my nose! Yes, I "saw" that the clocks had been changed yesterday (Saturday night, in fact, by my zealous husband), but I didn't "feel" the loss until this morning when I awoke an hour behind schedule with an hour loss on top of it. Eeeek!
I padded downstairs to put on the kettle and discovered I had forgotten to run last night's dinner dishes, in addition to noticing that the steamer used for broccoli prep had been missed on the clean-up sweep the previous eve. (By notice, I mean, with my nose -- Ick!)
What's a girl to do in such a situation? Pray for a miracle to turn back time and tidy all in one gesture? Cry and hope somebody takes pity on you? Brew a pot-of-tea-for-one and make some cinnamon toast? How 'bout all three? Okay, the praying for a miracle part seemed like a futile effort, since I didn't want to repeat the time change scenario. Fair enough. Crying, even in the silver-screen fashion of gently flowing glamorous orbs of crystalline sorrow seemed silly since every other person in this house is asleep or faking sleep, save my husband who is chirpy as ever in the morning, popping in and out the door doing the morning "chores" of letting out chickens and the cat and such. Since crying would stuff me up and dilute what little surface beauty I awoke with, I opt to suck it up and hit the cinnamon toast hard!
One of my sweetest childhood memories involves cinnamon toast -- that slightly sweet treat delivered on a bed tray to the infirm. It rarely happened, but when it did -- oh my! What delight! Much later in life, following the delivery of a baby (number five), I developed some sort of "fever sickness" and writhed in bed for many days. My friend/nurse came to the rescue and watched my four littles + littlest (baby) while I recovered. I remember little of that week, save for a distinct moment when a tearful Elizabeth came in to my darkened room with a tray of tea and cinnamon toast. "Here Mommy, please eat this and feel better," she sobbed. I ate, tasting the cinnamon like a fire of life, a healing fire. I recovered in due time, but my spirit lifted measurable with the first tiny nibble of c-toast.
Daily I intake a spoonful of a cinnamon-honey-turmeric-ginger concoction I store in a pooh-bear-approved honey-pot shaped jar. The spicy, silky, yummy flavor slips down easy and delights my body and mind. Sometimes I spread it on toast or flavor a cuppa tea with the jewel-toned elixir, but today -- with all its off-kilter change-o-mania -- I went straight for the toast, butter (LOTS), and cinnamon/sugar shaker. A pot o' tea sidled alongside to enable me to nibble, sip, repeat when necessary.
Here I sit at the keyboard, drumming out words tinged with humor: clear proof of the amazing healing properties of cinnamon toast. If this day doesn't improve, I plan to serve cinnamon toast at lunch and, if necessary, cinnamon toast at dinner. I will not be beaten by this time-change villain. If it won't give me back that hour I will simply celebrate cinnamon-ily until I just don't care a fig for that lost hour. Did I just say "fig"? Sweet, gushy, yummy, spread-on-toast fig? I wonder how that would taste, with just a hint of cinnamon?
Happy Monday (what's left of it, that is)!