The Land Of The Distracted
I can’t seem to combine writing and cooking. Recently, I left the stove on, which isn’t all that uncommon for anyone. But, we have a gas stove, and you’d think it would be easier to notice when it’s left on, right?
I’d cooked something on low, so the flame was reduced to a small bluish looking ring. I slid whatever I was cooking off the burner, transferred it to a dish and washed the pot. Then, I went upstairs to write and about two hours later, I came back down and that’s when I noticed the burner, still on.
Good God, I thought.
The second time was again, with cooking. Please, believe me when I say I’ve NEVER exhibited such mindlessness in my day to day routines until I started writing. I put a couple chicken breasts on, (yes, the same burner, yes, using the same pot, yes, on low again. )
I said to myself, “Donna, remember, you’ve got chicken on the stove,” believing if I spoke it out loud, I’d remember better.
About forty five minutes later, I smelled something. It smelled real good.
I actually thought, “where’s that good smell coming from?” 🙁
Another 30 minutes later, the smell changed. I stopped typing. What is that smell?
Oh shit. The chicken!
I jumped out of my chair, scaring little dog, and ran downstairs to find a blackened pot and chicken breasts. They’d just started to smoke, but the smell lingered for HOURS.
Good God, I said again.
The most recent was when I was driving. My small town doesn’t have a branch for my particular bank, so about once a month I have to drive to the closest one, which is about 30 minutes away. I was on I-95, going along, thinking about the WIP. I thought I’d looked in my blind spot to change lanes, but somehow missed seeing the car right there. Luckily we both reacted quick enough to avoid a wreck.
I guess this means while I’m writing, there ought to be no cooking and no driving. I’ve had some other distracted moments too, not as dangerous as the ones above, these are more like oops moments. Like, leaving the soaker hose running all day, or putting clothes in the dryer and forgetting to turn it on, or forgetting to feed my little doggie on time, and leaving the side door open for hours on end, air conditioner blasting. My hubby sometimes wonders why we’re fighting flies during dinner.
“Um, I don’t know honey, how’s the chicken? Too done?”
What have you forgotten to do, all because of writing?