Last night I baked the worst chocolate cake ever.
I made it from scratch, with my little retro hand mixer. I used really good ingredients: King Arthur flour, good cocoa, real butter, big brown farm eggs. And it looked so pretty in the pan, a little lopsided but deep dark luscious brown, dusted with powdered sugar.
We ate a very small supper in anticipation.
Let me tell you, disappointing doesn't begin to cover it. What a flavor disaster! All sugar, no substance, and the chocolate had, as they say, passed through on stilts. I tossed the thing in the trash. And anyone who knows me knows that had to be some bad cake for me to do that.
Meanwhile, we are once again looking for a new house to rent. My landlord showed up this week with a realtor in tow and announced that the house was going on the market. And reader, I'm okay with it. It's time.
Last spring when he first decided he was going to sell (and promptly let the idea drop when no buyer burst forth onto the scene) I had just moved my studio back home after having it down by the river for nine months. It was too soon, too much upheaval all at once. We didn't want to deal with it, and we got a reprieve.
Now, the timing is better. We haven't proceeded so far on the garage-to-studio renovation that any money was spent, and some of the junk has actually been cleared away. I've organized my art materials and pared back my wardrobe, getting rid of piles of unwanted stuff in the process. So maybe I've been anticipating this. Though you won't find a whisper of it in my 12-18 Months of Artful Intentions.
Which brings up one of those funny thing about Intentions. The path to your dreams hardly ever takes you through known territory. And it's seldom a direct route from A to B to C. Try to plot it out beforehand, and you'll likely just get in your own way, because, in truth, you're not following a path, you're making a trail.
And when you're making a trail, you have to trust your guide, that steady voice inside that nudges (and sometimes shoves) you along. Your guide doesn't whine, doesn't resist. Your guide doesn't complain: "I wasn't planning on having to move..." Your guide says things like, "Now you can have that sunroom... and a real closet..."
I think the Source sent the piano delivery guy to my door in the form of my landlord. And I think I'm going to choose to be very happy about it. Like the story says, with all this manure, there's got to be a pony in here somewhere.