Negotiating which pot to transplant the Dieffenbachia cutting into was taking too long, so Paula and I abandoned it and headed inside to help prepare for a fried chicken burger dinner. With a coating of sand on my upper thighs, calves, and feet, I was unfit for house entry—same for Evelyn—so we took turns while Grandma took her hand and brought the running water to us like she was washing her first car.
With Dave taking the main chef position—battering the chicken breasts in flour, egg, and panko, then frying them on the stove—I played sous chef. From peeling and slicing cucumbers and red onions for the cucumber salad, to mixing up the Frank’s Red Hot, butter, and flour for the sauce… uh oh, I lost my attention. Probably because I did it all. I dunked that fried chicken in that hot sauce, topped it with arugula and bleu cheese, dunked it again, and even now, after having eaten it all, my mouth still waters.
Heavy on my mind is that my grandma’s will is wrapping up. Years ago, I’d cried to her while talking about the cabin, her cabin—a cabin supposedly meant for herself and her daughters’ families—but I always felt it was unfair the way my one aunt possessed it as if it were hers alone, even kicking out or bullying family members over it. “Just wait until my will’s read. Everyone will be in for a surprise,” Grandma said at that dinner. Her admission was the breadcrumb I needed, and two years ago, when the letter arrived dividing her assets, the fallout hit certain family members hard—but not me. I smiled to myself, knowing her justice had, in some small way, been served.
It’s two hours before my usual bedtime, and I’m already planning my next move: walk straight down the hall, take a left, and make the ten-foot trek to sit, then lie down in bed. Maybe a bit of music or a podcast, though we all know that’ll fade out within minutes as my heavily fatigued body and mind are dumped off like dirt from a truck into sleep land.
When is it okay to end a post? My begs and pleads have thus far gone unanswered, so I keep going—as if I’m directing the most life-changing scene that will ever be, and until I see what I need to see, I have to put in the time. But being both actor and director—working with the push and pull, the almost but not yet—feels like being the dog with the treat on his nose, a jiggly string of drool slipping to the ground.
With that, I’m calling it. Enough. Tomorrow comes quick, and I’ll get right back into it then.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 