I have just burnt to a charred carcass the makings of chicken stock. I had browned the chicken bones, done the whole thing with fresh herbs and vegetables and stepped next door to watch a movie, setting the pot on the lowest heat and hoping it would get hot enough to simmer while I was gone . . . and simmer it most certainly did. To cinders.
Ah, well. I am now airing out the kitchen before I go to sleep: this kind of event is the Aristotelian actualisation for scented candles.
Tomorrow I resolutely plan to make a pot roast and sneak some roasted potatoes in next to it, and maybe have a salad, too. I have some feeble-looking artichokes that are going to be sacrificed on the altar of the Unknown Recipe, which should be fun: it involves cheese. Obviously a winner.
I’ve quoted Thomas Merton before--and I haven’t read very much of him but I’m working up to it--but I believe this quote sums up what I am feeling right now:
"The special clumsy beauty of this particular colt on this April day in this field under these clouds is a holiness consecrated to God by His own creative wisdom and it declares the glory of God."
I can’t help but laugh. I’m doing what comes to me naturally just as clumsily as I was made to be; by throwing my whole heart into everything I do I am completely and utterly my self, to the glory of God. The fragrance of my smoky kitchen must be a strange burnt offering, though. I am glad God laughs.
And here is a picture of my cat, Elanor (fondly called "Nora"), who was unperturbed by the entire operation but who clearly thought it was a waste of a good chicken carcass.