Letting things go, like the chicken stock
The day is done. I thought there’d be more to it than one long pouring of morning into midday into afternoon, punctuated less by meetings than their interruption.
Let’s break there and find each other in a month.
I don’t mind this kind of conclusion. It recognises the open-ended building of business well enough, and leaves me room to reformulate and mull.
Amid the flow, Ollie walked home from school all the way to the warehouse. Hasn’t that changed the afternoons! Coffee closed, bar opened, and the evening chilled as darkness hit early.
I’ve now realised I’ve ignored my son for a solid three hours (besides feeding him two megabake bars, finding him a couch, coating him in a blanket and listening to him to chat to his friend through a game or two… or three). Clearly this calm neglect suited us both.
And so the day peeled away its hours without my attention on them. I must have been enjoying my work. Now it’s well dark and late and we’re home and I’m that kind of tired – the kind that comes from forgetting to eat but having many stimulating conversations instead.
How did I ever think I’d get that last thing done?
My brain toys with this question as I reboil the stock I forgot to strain from yesterday (remembering Michael Ruhlman in these moments helps with the guilt).
Nope, I won’t get that last thing done.
I’m unusually happy in resigning to this. The deadline will need to wait another day. I don’t fester on this fact because May’s over, and that’s enough. May was not a walk in the park.
So we sit and eat chicken rice care of my reboiled stock and it couldn’t possibly be more delicious. My picky son concedes this as he pushes away from the table, plays Star Wars on the keyboard, and shows me his latest dance moves. Finally we both choose bed over cleaning up.
I hope this day is fortuitous, so that the rest of winter will find me letting go.