I sat at my desk for what felt like hours—minutes really—trying to put thoughts into words that I'd want to hit publish on. Nothing was ringing with finality that needed to be said. In bold, italics, or even
fine print.
Besides the bolognese for dinner that was made in an hour, which is completely blasphemous. A dish like that needs at least 3 hours to let the sauce develop, and whatnot. Rough estimate on the time needed. I'm no Italian nonna to dictate sauce etiquette. Not even Italian. I just love pasta so much. Tonight ‘twas rigatoni
A part of me feels like this, writing publishing daily, may be on its final days. One of two things might happen: it will fade off, or a miraculous push through this rough patch like a champ.