Remembrance of Things
Proust was supposedly inspired to write Remembrance of Things Past after smelling cookies or something. Similarly, and with obvious literary parallels, I am driven to blog tonight by the fact that the toast I just ate smelled a lot like my childhood dog.
Allow me to set the scene for you: I am at my desk, having just buttered a piece of toast. It is dusted lightly with cinnamon sugar. As I lift the succulent morsel to my lips I suddenly think, “Oh! Is Blossom here?”
She wasn’t - being dead some eight years - but I am now left with a quandary: Did my dog smell of cinnamon or is there something drastically wrong with the cinnamon I bought at the huge, Asian grocery on Victoria Street? It was only $3.00 for 500 grams, so I assume it’s of the highest quality.
Postscript: I finished the toast. I’m like a monster when I’m studying; anything within striking distance of my mouth (or arm’s reach, really) is likely to be grabbed and gobbled. I’d like to believe it’s because my brain is whirling so fast that my body has an intense drive for additional ATP. Considering my accidental two and a half hour nap today, however, this hypothesis seems increasingly unlikely.
Also: Harvested two broccolis today (I have pics, Sam, don’t worry).
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