Hey Grandpa! What’s for supper?

Hey Grandpa! What’s for supper? “Buffalo Chicken Cobbler with country fried mummichog gravy…”

Cobble: Verb 1. put together hastily

Cobble: Noun 1.  a deep-dish fruit pie with a rich biscuit crust, usually only on top. Noun 2: a mummichog.

Mummichog: Noun 1. a silver and black killifish, Fundulus heteroclitus,  found in fresh, brackish, and salt water along the Atlantic coast of the U.S.

Cobbling. The story of my life.

I crawled out of bed, not really hungry, but knowing if I didn’t eat, I’d suffer later.

Protein. Must have protein.

Standing in front of the open refrigerator, I weighed the options. No mummichog gravy. Looked at the clock, saw that I needed to hurry, and weighed the options again.  I saw half a chicken thigh, buffalo wing sauce, and eggs. I cobbled my breakfast together from leftovers. Just because chicken isn’t bacon doesn’t mean I can’t have eggs with it. Or hot sauce. Right?

Then I cobbled myself together for work, slapping on makeup in front of a steamy mirror, throwing my hair back in a clip, and randomly yanking clothes from hangers. Luckily, I own a lot of black.

That’s also what we’re doing with the last several chapters of our novel. Cobbling. Larry wrote some scenes, I wrote others, and when we had our weekly meeting, we piled up the printed scenes, and they were out of order. And when I use the word “order,” it’s kinda loosely, because action is taking place simultaneously in two different locations. So how do you order something like that?

I don’t.

Larry does. He seems to be able to keep it straighter than I can.

            When I cobbled this weekend, I ended up with the same scene two places, then when I realized that, I took it out, but failed to put in the correct scene before I sent it off for his approval.

            It occurs to me that I spend a great deal more thought and time on our story than I do either on meal planning or appearance.

With which I’m perfectly okay, because writing is way more fun than cooking or grooming.

Although I’m not sure what they think of me at work. I don’t suppose it matters as long as I remember to zip my pants.