It’s a beautifully gloomy day today. I even had the lights on this morning. Normally, I hate the rain, and I really hate having lights on during the day – it seems so sordid and depressing. But with the record warm weather and what is supposed to be the rainiest month of the year nearly over, we need all the rain we can get.
Although it’s foggy and dark outside – I can hardly see the green freeway exit sign or the dramatic Mormon temple, high in the hills, which usually looks down on me with a certain severity – and the ground is wet enough to be mildly hazardous, it’s a slacker rain so far, just barely putting in an appearance.
If I ran things, I’d be wearing one of my many tiaras and the rain would occur after, say, 11:00 pm, when most of us are in bed or close to it, and it would rain in a soothing way, so you’d feel all cozy in bed with your feather pillows and your vintage whodunit. The rain would go away by 5:00 or 6:00 am, so your morning paper wouldn’t be wet and your commute as uncomplicated as possible. I’d be a benevolent ruler.
While waiting for the rain to get some work done out there, I looked through the refrigerator to see what needed to be used up (tomorrow is garbage day, so it’s a good day to consign inedible food to the benevolent embrace of the green bin). My father lived on the outskirts of London during WWII and endured rationing* through the war and for many long years afterwards, so he never wasted food if he could help it, and I’m the same way.
I made leftover rice into pudding (comfort food for a gloomy day), and leftover chicken breasts and green beans are being transformed into a delightful casserole, along with shallots, garlic, baby red potatoes, and tarragon I happened to have on hand. Dad would be proud.
*My father’s mother used to tell me the Story of the Eggs. She had endured months of powdered eggs during the war, and finally had the right number of stamps or whatever it was to go and get fresh eggs – one apiece for herself, her husband, and two children. She had great plans for those eggs. She took my father and aunt with her to get the precious eggs. On the way home, they were bombed, and as she lay beneath the bus with her two children at her side, she prayed, “Please, God, don’t break my eggs!” He didn’t.