to go with the bunch of Middle Eastern food that someone had delivered to me.
Lentil soup and hummus. I have the dearest guardian angels. Thank you, thank you, thank you. My George Burns voice and I are already a little healed.
Listening to Jim White's Wrong-Eyed Jesus, about to curl back up with Bud Schulberg's The Disenchanted. The book and the music were Dublin-boy recommended as with the wonderful movie, and yesterday morning, on Tuttle with a full cup of truckstop coffee, the world felt rich as virgin soil and right as rain. Ohio is an odd place for me. Some moments have been the most challenging that I've ever known and others have found me in a jackpot of good people. I'm old enough to know that the is no adding-up, no final tally, not really that things happen for a reason but they keep happening until, like Ohio weather's cliche, if you don't like what you see, wait a few minutes and hang on and just onward and we'll-sees but every-so-cheesy-often with good black silk coffee in your stomach and on the right side of the highway, one feels she can't go wrong as long as she keeps trusting her instincts and moving along. (Chels, are you listening? ;-)
Turns out my food is from House of Cleo on High Street and the soup is just spicy enough to feel like good, winter-take-that food. The hummus is garlicky and so smooth that it feels decadent. mmm... All that, plus they deliver.