I knew it was there; I just kept ingoring it, figuring, you know, manana.
I did the daring deed today — opened up the container, scooped it all out with a paper towel, tossed it in the trash. Some things only get worse manana.
And then there are some things that just sit there, static and staionary, until you finally tackle them. Like the boxes of odds and ends I upturned looking for extension cords, heating pads, velcro, hooks — all in an effort to facilitate my mom’s life at this point. It will be a while before they get tackled, I’m afraid.
And then there’s the rosemary and wine marinated boneless leg of lamb that I was suppoed to cook for Christmas Day. Oy! No manana. Do it now or freeze it, and it just won’t be as tender after it’s defrosted. So, I put the roast on a spit in the rotisserie/convection/double burner table-top oven I bought when I moved. (Huh! NOW it’s on sale; I paid a third again more when I bought it. )
Oy! So lambdelcious. Crispy outside, succulent inside, redolent of rosemary. I sit down by myself (my mother is barely eating anything and my brother is a vegetarian) and stuff myself with lamb and sweet potatoes and salad. Went through all that trouble just for myself. And it was worth it.
How can I stuff my face while my mom is lying in the next room, barely able to get up and eat a little soup every once in a while, you might wonder. (I made a big pot of beef oxtail soup with all kinds of veggies, including potato skins for the potassium and [my secret to great beef soup] a can of V-8 juice instead of tomatoes. Then I strain it all out and wind up with a most nutritious broth.) Food is love.
While I’m engrossed in food today, my cat has not eaten at all. Instead, she finds places to hide in my mother’s room. When I carry her back to my space and put her in front of food, she runs back to my mom’s. Is she sick too, or is she super empathetic? My first cat, an independent and non-affectionate male, would come and snuggle up next to me and purr whenever I wasn’t feeling well. Somehow they know.
Lamb on a spit and moldy guacamole. A little delight and a lot of entropy. Ah, life.

“That Elaine was shit, she says.”
“I’m Elaine, Ma,” I say.
“No,” she says. “I mean the other Elaine. She wants to be with her four girlfriends. She has no use for me. You’re good to me. You are like my mother.”
Before we moved here, before she began declining so rapidly, I used to try to get out at least a couple of times a month– meet friends for dinner or a movie. I could tell that she wanted to go with me, but I ignored her hints and grabbed whatever time for myself that I could. Since I wasn’t totally dedicated to her, apparently she thought I was a shit.
That “other” Elaine — the one who had a life. In her mind, the Evil Twin.
She’s rallied a bit, but the hospital experience has left her with residual aches and pains. So I still sleep in the next room. My brother has rigged up an alarm that sounds when she gets out of bed. She’s still a bit unstable on her feet, so I get up at night to help her get to the bathroom.
This is the good Elaine, the one whose life revolves around her mother. Just what my mother always wanted.
Meanwhile, I’m getting the hang of my bread machine — made a delicious loaf of Russian Sweet Bread, which is similar to the bread my mother used to make around the holidays. Half of the loaf is gone already. Tomorrow I will make more and also roast the marinated boneless leg of lamb that was supposed to be for Christmas Day dinner. Good thing I like to cook.