I tossed and turned last night and dreamt of moths. No anxiety dream, though, as I went to bed reading about moths. They build scaffolding, web-like things, lurk in dark closets burrowing into grains and stained clothing. They've been flying around our house like they own it. I've done the clean out the cupboards and throw away the open boxes, spray down the shelves with vinegar. I dislike their papery wings, their longing for water and light.
I figure baking and writing go hand in hand.** I've baked ten gingerbread forest cakes and am working on my fourth coconut cake this morning. My cottage industry gig, Everyone Needs Cake,™ has helped to fund Christmas this year. If there's a grosser phrase than help to fund Christmas, write it down in the comments because what's grosser than Consumer Christmas? My tiny men-children and daughter will reap the benefits of my returning to my pastry roots, and so has my writing. I wasn't writing at all the last few months, not so much paralyzed as overwhelmed and disgusted by the meaninglessness of all of it. Not just my writing, but the whole full catastrophe of Terrible America, fueled by the POSPOTUS* and his band of billionaires and Eddie Munster and The Turtle and all the rest of the Kochacracy (that's you, Susan Collins, and Murkowski, too, with the selling off of the Alaskan Wildlife Refuge to oil).
The writing and the baking go hand in hand, here in the gingerbread forest with confectioner's sugar snow, papery moth wings, and coconut clouds on the pale blue dot of home in the vast galaxy around it.
Merry Christmas Eve, resistors!
*Piece of Shit President of the United States. Yeah, I know it's Christmas Eve and all is hallowed, but the acronym still stands.
** No moth infestation in the products used for Everyone Needs Cake™ -- just in my dreams.