It only took me 12 hours, but I think I have finally reconciled myself to the realization that today is *not* going to be all about the Complete and Utter History of Eggs. 
This is probably just as well. In fact, there’s a sort of weird relief to it, much in the same way that there was a sort of weird relief to throwing out everything in the kitchen. I certainly wasn’t thrilled to do it, and I almost cried when I realized that the sourdough starters were dead, but at the same time it was nice to be able to put food into the fridge without fighting with everything else that was in there. It’s an object lesson in understanding that it’s okay to not have everything at your fingertips. I spend so much time in this state—at the box factory, in writing, in researching, in everything—that to not be this way is rather like taking a deep breath.
It does, however, make it a bit difficult when one wants to rabbit on at length about how much she wants to bake a sandtorte when she gets home, only to discover that the goddamned recipe is at home. 
That’s it, Lee Ann. I’ll see your Paula Abdul and I’ll raise you one Jane Child, “Don’t Wanna Fall in Love.”
Bwahahahahaaaaa.
(Don’t even get me started on the Tone Loc, honey.)