The War Against Terror · 5 March 2002
Today I woke up later than usual, about 8:30. I put on a pair of khaki shorts and a plain grey t-shirt, then went downstairs and did some routine things involving objects made of porcelain. There was hot coffee on the stove; I poured some into my Bart Simpson mug, around which I then wrapped both hands while looking outside at the rain. Butter melted in a pan while I cracked three eggs into a Pyrex measuring cup, onto which I ground some pepper and salt. I drank juice. I made slow figure eights in the measuring cup with a fork plucked from the wire cage by the sink, hearing once again the voice of a television cook who said, don’t beat; combine. When the foam subsided in the pan, I poured. I buttered some of yesterday’s bread. I took a wooden spoon from the ceramic pot on the radiator and, lifting the pan from the stove, pulled in the edges that had formed, opening channels. I shook the pan, then jerked: a quick push-pull, then again. Eventually the bottom folded over the top, and I carefully upended the pan over a plate. I ran hot water, squeezed soap, scrubbed with a brush, and replaced the pan on its hook. The breakfast trays are new; we bought them only yesterday. I arranged the plate, a knife and fork, a napkin, and a cup of coffee on one, then brought it upstairs.
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