100 daily posts.
As I saw this milestone approaching, I have to admit I thought, well 100–that would be a nice place to stop. And I don’t know if any of you noticed, but when I published yesterday’s post, it went out as “poetry: 99/100.” It was about five minutes before I realized what I’d done, and I had to laugh.
But too many good things are coming from this practice for me to stop now. I’m more articulate, not only in life but also on the page. And not only this page but also with my fiction. I feel good about things. I’ve gotten to know many of you. This blog feels alive. And both in Minneapolis and in Boulder, people came up to me to say, aren’t you the one doing the truth thing?
While it’s true that I don’t enjoy cooking anymore, I did last night. My husband had a tooth pulled, and he requested tapioca pudding–something I haven’t made in a long, long time. In fact, the box of tapioca read best used before Nov 2013. Then I couldn’t find the hand-mixer–I had no idea when I’d last used it.
But in the corner of the kitchen counter sat my grandmother’s Sunbeam Mixmaster. I’d had it since she died twenty years ago. Maybe I’d used it, but I wasn’t sure. I’d already found the beaters looking for the hand-mixer. So I washed the bowl and then plugged it in. Worked like a charm, as my grandmother would say.
A Sunbeam Mixmaster–connecting me to my grandmother and to my husband.