When Life Gives Us Lemons...

You know you’re a mystery writer when...

Today I was making polenta, an operation I do in the oven, because it cuts out a lot of the stirring. But you still have to do some.

So, here I am, making my polenta.

I grab a spoon, and reach into the hot oven to give my brew a good stir and burn my hand on the top element of my oven. A small burn that was, ironically enough, shaped like a small heart, about a half inch in diameter. A small burn, but a good one. For a few seconds -- for a heartbeat -- I smelled grilled meat. Something like chicken. It horrified me, the fact that this grilled meat, chickeny smell should emanate from... me.

And while I ran cold water over the burn and while I slathered special creme on it (as much to make the smell go away as to short circuit the pain I knew I’d be feeling shortly) I thought: Now I know what this smells like/feels like. This is something I can use.

I should mention that, though the burn looks a bit unslightly, it’s small and so far the big pain pain I anticipated hasn’t kicked in. In other words: aside from now having a little more fuel for the ol’ writing mill than I did before (and a tray of cooling polenta) I’m just fine.


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