Spring Cleaning

Well, well...a few days ago I was looking at the pictures on my blog. I clicked to take a close up look at that spinach salad again. And, uh, instead of noticing the spinach, I saw icky brown mildewy stuff in the cracks between the tiles. "Eeeww, gross picture," I thought. And then a moment later: "Aaack! Gross counter." I got down to a little spring cleaning this weekend. And am happy to report that my grout is now scraped clean and much more sanitary. In fact, I scrubbed the entire apartment. Since it will probably never be this clean again, I took a picture:



Now, even someone as in love with food as me has a bad day every once in a while. I don't know if it was the time change, the art show I went to last night (I stayed up until midnight! Big news for this librarian), or the entire bottle of sparkling water I drank at the bar, but I was feeling a bit hung over this morning. And missed the market. I time all of my eating perfectly so that I eat up every last vegetable on Saturday. And then I buy more on Sunday. So, I have not a single vegetable in my home. Sigh. I had to resort to eating deviled eggs for spring cleaning sustenance. I had forgotten how tasty they are. This is nothing inventive, just the usual mustard, mayo, salt, and paprika.



Spring cleaning is always emotional. At some point in the day you are bound to run into an old box of photos, a journal, letters... I managed pretty well considering I found my engagement party album and a bunch of bad poetry I wrote "before the fall." I know, I know, but really, that's how it seems in my head. Anyway, out of many many awful poems, there was one I liked:

Mid December. You and I,
stand wrapped in coats
waiting for a cab in New York City.
You stare into the icy day.
A butterfly sweeps by.
He has no clue it isn't spring.
Your eyes follow
and you give him that
"I know better than you" look
you so often save for me.
I whisper in your ear
"Let's catch him,"
and your look becomes severe.
"Let's catch him and take him
back to LA where it is always spring."
Without a word,
you reach into your purse
and pull out a butterfly net.
Then, clomping down the icy street
in your heavy boots,
you chase the butterfly.