This is how the last half-hour played out.
I was reading a book, drinking incredibly strong coffee, and, like most of the time when I’m reading a book, I was desperate for a distraction. I settled on the old standby, the classic “I’ll just grab a quick snack.” After all it had been hours since breakfast, and I was famished—famished?—ok not really famished, or hungry at all, but I decided I’d better eat something anyway, you know, just to be safe.
My first instinct was granola, but then I saw some apples on the counter, and knowing my history with buying apples and then letting them go bad, and seeing how history was, right there in front of me, in the process of repeating itself, I opted for an apple themed snack. But how to eat the apple? ”Bite into it” was ruled out immediately because the skin always gets stuck in my teeth, and “cut it into segments and put peanut butter on it” seemed appealing at first but was then vetoed when some voice inside me lazily protested against the…umm…tedium of cutting? I’m not really sure what happened exactly, except that all I know is a few moments later I was hypocritically cutting up a couple apples and putting them into my VitaMix (which I got for Christmas, and is better than any Red Rider BB gun, ever) with the intent of making apple juice, because I thought maybe that was a thing I could do with that blender.
Two minutes later I had a steaming blob of apple pulp. Far from refreshing juice. Added some water and ice (to combat the steam), blended, poured a sample, and drank a few sips of what tasted like apples but had the mouth feel of watery apple slime sauce. More water. More ice. Still gross. Fast forward a minute and I’m holding a chinois, slowly straining juice into a measuring cup, next to like nine dirty dishes on a counter-top that was clean five minutes before when I decided that cutting an apple seemed like too much work.
I taste the strained juice and…Delicious! Success. So now I just need to clean up and get back to readin…but wait! There’s pulp in that strainer! I couldn’t just throw that out right? Right!
Oh god. I hate my brain.
Two minutes later and I’m micro-planing a nugget of nutmeg into a bowl of whisked apple pulp, brown sugar, cinnamon, and a splash of cider vinegar. I had decided to make apple pancakes because fritters needed too much oil to deep fry in and that was, somehow in my stupid head, simply just too much work. I add some flour and baking powder and then get this idea that I need to add soda water because the carbonation would help the baking powder make the whole thing more puffy, but my roommate took the bottles for her Sodastream to work with her and my Isi whipper has been broken since I made the coffee infused vodka, and now I’m consoling myself that it’s going to be ok, you’ll be fine with just the leavening power of baking powder. But I know I’m lying and I’m depressed about it but lying to my other lying self all like, yeah, you’re right, it’ll be totally fine. But we both know.
And then I’m like, shit, did I just make vegan pancakes? Oh no. So I melt some butter in a pan to salvage the whole operation and they turn out pretty good but still a bit too dense and I know it’s because of the missing carbonated water, but I’m trying to suppress that and not be all passive-aggressive “I told you so” to my other more optimistic defeated self. I grab some pecans and maple syrup, leave the kitchen now full of dirty dishes, sit down at the dining room table with my pancakes and fresh apple juice, and begin to confront the fact that I’m probably never going to be able to finish reading a book ever again in my life.