Yesterday, a review of the contents of my fridge indicated I had enough eggs to make pumpkin bread; grapes well on their way to bubbly fermentation; a green pear that was looking more like a purple plum; and two lonely, cooked chicken breasts that had been hanging out in the cold darkness together for weeks waiting in vain to be chopped and eaten as part of a sandwich.
There is nothing quite like a cold orange, quartered, and hacked at by the teeth to allow the tingling, acidic juice slide down the back of the throat.
So yesterday, apart from staring into my fridge, I stood at the back door looking through the glass at the weeds where no less than 14 birds were foraging at the base of the weeds. I was wading through my joyful eagerness to decide whether to weed the backyard or drag out the ladder and replace exterior lightbulbs, when suddenly I was seized upon by an imminent necessity to run to my art room and make a wall hanging from scratch, though I had not turned on my sewing machine or cut anything with scissors for the better part of a month.
By the time I finished the wall-hanging (15"x15"), it was dark outside, too dark to weed or change light bulbs. 
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