Last night, my mother called me just before I left for work, because what they thought was a sinus infection is actually a cancerous tumor that has spread through my grandma’s face.  She is dying.  And you know, that’s what people do when they are about to turn 99. But no matter when your grandma dies, it’s always your grandma dying.
I went to work and after sauteing my carrots, celery and onion with bay leaf and thyme in a beautiful cast iron pan, over a low enough flame to let them melt and caramelize at a pace in time with meandering over a stretch of lovely beach in search of shells, and adding the potatoes and fresh corn to simmer away into the corn chowder that I fall in love with all over again, every time I make it, I added the milk.  And with everyone around the pot, waiting for their first course to fill their hunger from waiting, the milk curdled.

Some days are meant for for sleeping.