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I'm not a big breakfast eater. Yes, I know, breakfast is the most important meal of the day, blah, blah, blah. I actually buy into that propaganda about twice a week. This morning was one of the twice. This morning I made an apple butter sandwich to go with my coffee.
Apple butter is a simple indulgence, a smooth, deep brown spread made from stewed apples and seasoned with cinnamon. Slathered between two slices of bread, with a swipe of butter and it is a meal fit for a king. I held the sandwich in front of my face and closed my eyes, breathing in the fragrant aroma. I was instantly transported to a time long ago.
Groton, Connecticut, 1968ish. It was autumn, the days were long and warm. The air smelled of freshly mowed grass and bayberries. In the distance the repetitive crackle of an ice cream truck lured children from all directions, but not me. I had an apple-butter sandwich clutched in my hands, the only clean surface on my almost 8 year old body following the required hand washing before acquisition of food. I held the sandwich in front of my face and closed my eyes, breathing in the fragrant aroma and I was instantly transported to a time not so long ago.
Scotland, 1964ish. It was a cool, crisp autumn day. The smell of smoke from every chimney in the neighborhood mingled with a faint hint of salt drifting up from the river hung in the air. The monotonous cawing of hundreds of sea gulls filled the atmosphere with almost a festive mood, but I was oblivious to anything but the two slices of thick bread separated only by a generous slathering of smooth, dark, spicy apple butter and creamy, home churned butter.
And I was instantly transported to another time, another place. It was autumn~
I was looking for a specific blog entry in my badly neglected Dust Bunny blog when I got caught up in reading some of my past entries. I hardly even recognized myself as the author. The woman-child words and descriptions of daily life filled the web pages with lighthearted humor. It was obvious that she was devoted to her children and even her husband whom she affectionately and sometimes exasperatedly referred to as Dickidoo. She seemed to find humor in almost anything, and when she chose to be serious, it was a deep, emotional side that came through. She was a simple person with a big heart and a bigger laugh.
I miss her.
I've tried to lure her out but she has retreated so far into the shadows of my mind that I fear I have lost touch with her completely. Her spontaneity has been replaced by cold calculation. Her laughter is now bitter and sarcastic. She doesn't sing, not even in the shower. Doodles no longer take over bill statements. She says she loves to cook but if you ask she probably couldn't tell you when she last prepared a nice sit down dinner for the family. She scoffs at the words 'love', 'forever' and 'trust'. She has accepted that she has become an American statistic.
So this is what 'growing up' feels like. Not sure I like the person staring back at me from the mirror in my mind. I'm certainly not liking what I am growing in to but I can't blame the metamorphosis on anyone but myself. I have allowed myself to become this.
Well, if she won't come to me then maybe I'll go back for her. I can never really go back entirely for obvious reasons, but I can certainly go back to being who and what I knew and loved. If you can't love yourself then who can you love? That may sound vain, but really, if you are not happy with yourself, who you are and what you are, then you can never truly be happy in any other aspect of your life. I miss being happy, truly happy.
I miss being me.
So be warned folks, here I come... again!
I woke up this morning and thought "Blah de blah!". No, really, I did. In my mind I clearly heard "Blah de blah!", and I thought "Wow, that's a nice change from the self deflating thoughts I usually harbor first thing in the morning." (yes, I really thought that too, in my internal tone of voice).
So what does one do on a 'blah de blah' kind of morning? I don't know about anyone else but I celebrated with red velvet cake, vanilla ice cream and 2 hour old coffee, barely lighted by an unhealthy splash of hazelnut creamer. Wondering how so many calories could weigh so little on my plate and yet multiply so greatly on my body, I picked the icing off of the cake and pushed it to the side of the plate, immediately alleviating all guilt.
Cake, ice cream, a mug of coffee and no guilt. What better way to start the day!
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