I laid awake in bed the night before I was to embark on my culinary journey, plotting my menu for the coming days. I had a plan. I had the means. I was ready to go.
Eight hours later I drowsily woke to the sound of my son squealing with glee. He would wake each morning around 8am, and entertain himself in his crib until I made my way into his room. I had never been a morning person until he had started this tradition three months earlier.
Slowly, it came over me. I had absolutely no will to move, none the less make my own ricotta. My beautiful son had been kind enough to pass his minor cold on to me. What was a few days of sniffles & barely a cough for him had somehow translated into near death. My sense of taste was gone, I had no appetite, and worst of all, I had no desire to do anything more than what was absolutely necessary to make it through the day.
I took this as a sign from above that I should hold off on any major undertakings. The laundry went unwashed. My floors were littered with dirt and paw prints. Baby bottles were strewn about the house. I had my husband eat leftovers. This went on for three days.
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