If I Lay Down, I Should Still Be Able to Zip My Pants

It was a day the likes of which were once discussed in tomes dedicated to the excesses of ancient Rome.

In other words, I ate until I thought I would burst.

Dang autumn.

It wasn’t the sweet and sour chicken.  It surely wasn’t the curried squash soup.  But the batch of chocolate chip cookie batter I mixed up – some of which actually made it to the cookie sheet/oven – was the home-made icing on the wide-load cake.

Autumn.

It started as a cleaning day, morphing into a cooking day, followed by a baking day, resulting in an evening in which I pondered the innie, the outtie, and the distance between the two.

All of these days happened in the space of Sunday.  It’s complex – I don’t think we have time for it here – but let’s just say that it involved some tricky justification on my part.  It’s an economic thing, energy-wise.  It’s weather-related. 

And best of all, I shouldn’t have to eat again until Thursday.

Why?  Why?

Outside, the leaves have fallen, the limbs of the massive oak outside my third-floor apartment, now naked, scratch the bright blue October sky. 

And inside, the apartment smells of several dinners and the next size up.