Today’s installment of “Adventures in Finding Jack” takes us to a storage shelf…
…above the television…
What a little jerk.
Had me scared half to death. Couldn’t find him. Wouldn’t come when he was called. I didn’t want to use the treats to bring him out because he’s gotta keep his figure. That darn cat.
So, this weekend happened. I don’t want to talk about it. You don’t want to talk about it. JoePa doesn’t want to talk about it. We’re not going to talk about it.
I’ve been watching a lot of The Barefoot Contessa lately, Ina Garten. Today on her show, she said,
“If you’re just starting out cooking, it can be intimidating. I’ve been cooking for 30 years and I still feel like a beginner.”
Yay! There’s no hope for anyone!
Since I’ve been home post-unemployment, I was cooking a lot. You may have noticed less recipes on the blog recently. That’s because I gained probably about 10 pounds and have since been getting back to the way humans should eat, meaning, a hellll of a lot less sugar. That means…
No more homemade strawberry ice cream with homemade sweet cream:
No more homemade peach ice cream torte:
And no more apple and raisin puff pastry strudel:
I’m retiring my Paula Deen Sugar and Butter Badge for more hummus, more brown rice, more oatmeal, etc. (SPOILER ALERT: I said retiring, not turning in. And my definition of retiring is very similar to Brett Favre’s.)
So my friends, that brings us to Fiction Monday. I’m currently getting my entry ready for NPR’s latest edition of their Three-Minute Fiction project. (Had to stop myself from spelling it ‘prahject.’) This week’s might be a bit lackluster because I’m trying to save my best ideas for the contest. Wish me luck!
But here’s this week’s edition. Take 16: “Never Kill A Moth”
Never Kill A Moth
First I heard the moth. Then I saw the moth. I watched it leap from one pane of glass to the other. Each pane offering the same point of escape, and the same inevitable block to the outside. It buzzed frantically from the top of the window to the bottom. Flew back up and looped lazily around the middle of the window, as if it were attached to strings and some puppeteer from above the window was pulling it in figure eights. Maybe the moth thought if he stayed in the middle of the window, it would eventually open for him. Or her.
Now it rested on one glass pane, perfectly vertical. Rubbing its eyes with its front legs, back legs holding the whole of its body in place. Could he be crying? Or is this just a good time for a little self-cleaning? Why would you clean at a moment like this? Can moths cry? Do they feel emotion? Is he sad he can’t get outside? Does he even differentiate between inside and outside? Isn’t the whole world his, or her, oyster, really?
What did they say about moths in biology class? They have the life span of a day? No, that was flies. But this moth just could have been born and now its whole life hangs in the balance because it can’t get outside. How sad. Or maybe it’s an old wise moth. That might be giving it too much credit. But if it’s old, it must have thought it wanted to see an inside world before she died. Then it would be able to die saying it had truly seen everything, how the inside and outside world lived.
Maybe I should put it out of its misery. It’s a pretty big moth. He probably lived a good life. He somehow found a way in here, so maybe this is his fate. He was supposed to die inside. Who determines the fates of moths? Is it the world order that I, magazine in hand, should bring about the death of this lost moth, fate or not? That is awful cruel if you think about it. Just because this moth was probably more curious than the other moths, has a bit more spunk, she got lost and now has to pay the price with her life? That would be like saying if I got lost driving somewhere, a thug would have to come out of nowhere and club me over the head. But that’s not world order, that’s a criminal society. Do moths have societies? Now it’s doing that sad buzzing thing again. I should just kill it.
“What is that?!” she said, breaking my trance.
“A moth?!” she said. “What are you going to do with that magazine, kill it?!”
“I was thinking about it.”
“DON’T!” she nearly burst.
She went into the kitchen and pulled a paper towel from the dowel. She moistened it under warm water and rung it out. She practically tip-toed into the foyer and was an inch away from the moth and neither she nor the moth moved. Why didn’t she tell me she was some kind of ninja moth whisperer? She slowly moved her hand holding the wet paper towel closer to the moth, and in one flash, her wet paper towel engulfed the moth like a venus fly trap. She ran to the front door, pushed it open and released the contents of her loosely contained paper towel. And the moth flew out into the pine tree in the front yard.
“What was that all about?” I asked.
“You don’t kill moths in your house. Ever.”
“Because,” she said, throwing the paper towel away, “superstition says a moth in your house is really a deceased relative visiting. So you’d be killing your great grandmother or someone.”
“What if I did kill it?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I guess the soul would die or something. Do moths have souls?”