Life Among The Troglodytes

Well, here we are at two little old people living alone and no one to "do" for them.  A few days ago my husband made the most delightful lasagna for two guests, our student at the Asolo Conservatory and his girlfriend.  As is so often the case these days, I suggested the recipe, insisted that I would take care of everything, but when the time came my wrist had begun to hurt big time, and he took over the whole operation, no doubt partly exasperated, but--well, I hate to say, but he is the biggest control queen in the world.  Sunday dinner was extraordinary in every detail, and having suggested the event, I did nothing.  He cooked the lasagna in a magnificent cast iron enameled pan, reminiscent of the grand days when my wife and I used to have twenty to dinner at the drop of a hat.  The effortlessness and fun of those impromptu events, I now realize, rode on the bottles and bottles of wine we consumed while turning out the whole affair.  Well, moving past the nostalgia, and arriving at Wednesday, he brought out the pan from the fridge with the rest of the lasagna, cut it into squares two of which we had for dinner and the rest suitably wrapped he put back into the cold.  Then yesterday he went for his cataract operation and I made my debut at this year's semester teaching the Odyssey.  All good.  Now here I am the next morning confronting the lasagna pan sitting washed and dried on the kitchen counter.  He, poor dear, could not put it away because his doctor severely enjoined him from bending over for the period of recuperation (all I can think of is a cartoon drawing of him bending over and his eye popping out of his head!), and I, alas, now have my damaged wrist under medication and in a brace.  So I guess it will just sit there on the counter.  Don't you suppose this is the way all those old, old codgers you see shuffling along who live alone?  When you read accounts of police breaking into some old person's house they always mention the smell, and, yes, the clutter.  It so happens that we are going to the airport later this morning to pick up a friend who has flown down for the weekend to escape the cold and get some sunshine. When we get back into the apartment first off while I make her a nice cup of coffee I can show her where in the kitchen cabinets various and sundry items need to be placed.  Come to think of it, my daughter will be here for a visit when the other eye goes under the knife, and she can . . . . ., but maybe, just maybe, my wrist will have healed.