It's been a challenging week, with eruptions/explosions on the homefront; while at work, 1/3 of our staff (which = one person) at home sick with "intestinal flow" (and I think he actually said "flu" but "flow" seemed so much more apt), and then a turbulence of the heart. Ah, the heart. One would think that by this age, we'd be so over these kinds of fusses. Well, we aren't. Welcome to singlehood at 56.
But I walked in the door tonight to a heaven-sent scent, and my son was in the kitchen bent over a bowl of something pink and creamy, and a single-layer chocolate cake was in the oven, nearing that perfect state of sponginess. We each had a slice, while it was still warm (raspberry cream cheese frosting!), and goddamn that was the best cake I've ever eaten. (He realizes that this is a high compliment, as I consider cake to be a gift of the gods.)
Not a complete cure, but probably the best balm possible on a lousy day. How did he know?