in which there are 66 long, long days left

Tonight, I am shopping for aprons and dreaming about baking bread and making dinner. The irony of being what most people would see as a successful career woman fantasizing about domesticity isn't lost on me, but it's more than simple "the grass is always greener" nonsense: I'm sick to death of having virtually no options in what I eat, damnit.

With two chow halls- three, if I want to hoof it down to the north end of base- easily available to me, I shouldn't complain. I know I'm lucky. But I miss my kitchen, and choices, and vegetables that are fresh and ripe and not shipped many thousands of miles to get to me and then steamed/ boiled beyond recognition. I miss curry that has both fragrance and flavor. I miss eating in private, instead of in a room full of strangers, co- workers, and acquaintances that might decide to be social at any time regardless of how I'm feeling at that moment. I miss controlling my servings.

I also miss listening to Kiddo's day while doing prep work, or making out with Sam in the kitchen while something simmers on the stovetop. I miss Lilu wiggling her nubbin tail at me hoping I'll drop a little something as I cook. I miss the cats silently resenting me from under the table for all the noise I'm making. I miss home, damnit, and my being closer to it- so close I can almost see it- doesn't help much.

(Digging the apron? Me too. The pattern can be found here.)

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