Today was a wild one. My ad to encourage voting early by mail (featuring a human ballot in a spandex suit) was greenlit, and our shoot yesterday had been long, hot, and hilarious. We were pursued by the law across Far Rockaway, but finally got all the locations. 

This morning I biked the drive full of footage over to Ed, the editor, and wandered around this housing complex finding his apartment. Then I biked home and had a very full day of camp forms submitting and then meetings, and some more meetings, then some sparky drinks on the deck. I’m exhausted. 

Some good things happened today. One was Daisy cooked dinner—she made pesto and it was really good.

Wyatt sent me links to computer parts he wanted me to buy for him. No. 

Today Calvin reported that Maggie’s new boyfriend, who has been weed whacking her overgrown lawn for the past four days (with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth), drove her new silver car. Not far, but there is a relationship there and we think he has a calming effect on her because she has not tweeted about us in a while or blasted music at us.

Today was the day a reddish haze hung over Berkeley. 

Today was the day I meant to write for a solid hour and I didn’t. Why not? I needed to play video games and listen to stupid podcasts. I needed to eat a strange meal of cold egg noodles, a little goulash broth and cottage cheese and not enjoy it that much.

Tonight I went on the deck to just stare at my phone and drink white wine and the kids came out. Both Calvin and I have too much going on and the kids have exactly nothing going on, so it occurred to me that they should cook dinner pretty much every night.

Wyatt rose to the challenge, but was angling to make twice-baked potatoes, which are just fancy baked potatoes, not really an entrée unto themselves. I was advocating for a small meat to go with it, like chicken thighs and suddenly Wyatt revealed he wanted to make my super special secret stovetop chicken. 

I got the recipe from the 60-Minute Gourmet, by Pierre Franey, and it is a very good recipe. I described the whole process to Wyatt and he listened and asked good questions, continuing to speak as Calvin attempted to join the conversation despite being enmeshed in a texting and mailing frenzy. I kept up my cooking monologue and ploughed through the whole recipe. 

“What did you think of that delivery?” I asked Wyatt, meaning, did you understand that? Would that kind of description clarify a recipe?

Daisy piped in: “In general, mommy, things are better written down, like recipes.” 

That really set me on my heels. “I was asking about style, not medium,” I snapped at her. “I’m a writer. I don’t underestimate the importance of the written word.” 

Wyatt was also horrified, or maybe he was just hoping I wouldn’t turn my laser-focused withering disdain upon him. 

“Just pointing it out,” Daisy said with all the wisdom of her almost sixteen years on this earth. 

New Supermarket Update: The new, faraway supermarket was big but felt soulless, even though I spotted a couple of weirdos I’d like to see again. That is what I miss lately about Best Market. I saw so many people in the supermarket, people doing wonderful and weird things. Once a man asked me if organic chicken egg yolks were more orange than regular egg yolks. I don’t think that’s true, but I enjoyed the guy and the concept.

Today at the Steinway butcher, the butcher told me his brother died two weeks ago of the covid. “You gotta live like you can die tomorrow! You gotta live!” he told Daisy and me as his colleague wrapped up the chicken and two pork chops.

“You do!” I agreed with him, which I do. I asked about the other butcher, who has a sign on the door that says they are closed because of a health issue. It’s upsetting. He’s my butcher.

We have found a new smaller market that just appeared about ten blocks from us. It’s more of a pumped-up fancy deli but better than nothing. I may drive to the big soulless market both because I need to drive like an adult who drives and there were serious weirdos there and I need to have those people in my life.

Weirdos is not the right word but I don’t know what is.