A Helping of Normal

I remember I started feeling bad on Super Tuesday. There we were, ensconced on the sofa in front of CNN, treasuring the last few days of nonstop political punditry before we canceled our satellite service. As the states lit up on John King's interactive map, I realized I was not enjoying Barack Obama's many wins as much as I had planned. In fact, by bedtime I felt distinctly unwell.

Sigh. Over the last two weeks I battled what I started out believing was a nasty cold, through the flu that got us one by one, and finally I am left with John, in the bedroom nursing pneumonia and reading his third book in as many days. My kitchen counter has looked like a wet bar of pharmaceuticals, with cold medicines and fever reducers standing in for mini bottles. The various juices and Gatorades to tempt our nonexistent taste buds and keep us hydrated have multiplied as well. We have made it halfway through a teetering library pile of books and videos.

But this morning, with husband still on the mend and eldest headed off to school with his sick note, Sam and I made a stand for normal. Medicines were banished to their top of fridge bins, everything wiped down, and mixer pulled forward. Flour and sugar and shortening from the cabinets, water from the tap, yeast and whole wheat flour and wheat germ from the refrigerator. Time to make bread.

It was wonderful how much I felt the regular rhythms of a good, well life returning as Sam and I measured and added and blended. We smiled as the Kitchenaid did its thumping dance as it kneaded, and were delighted after the first rise as the dough brimmed its greased bowl.

How those loaves satisfied me in their ordinary splendor, cooling on the counter. All shall be well and very well.