[This entry is cross posted at ordinary-times.com]

I can’t be alone in occasionally wishing to forget all my troubles and become a wizened old half of a Boston marriage with leathery skin and piercing blue eyes. How comforting would it be to know the names of all the birds you hear singing while you press bits of colored glass into fresh concrete steppingstones in the side garden. Oh, the scarves I would own. When I told people it’s a waste to flush when they just “make water” I wouldn’t even blush. My home would be a shrine to rugged DIY projects and stuff with beads. People would look to each other and say of all manner of things, “I don’t know how to do that, but I bet that composting lady can show you.”

Of course, there’s no wand or Subaru dealership that magically conveys the air of brisk assurance I’m seeking, but if you want to feel as one with “all the violet tiaras, braided rosebuds, dill and crocus” there’s always putting food in decorative yet practical jars. I can do that.

I want to be clear that when I put food in practical jars I’m not doing so for practical ends. That involves precision. I’m doing it for a psychosomatic taste enhancing aesthetic that serves no other purpose using Tupperware could not achieve.