I rested from my labors.

If God, the creator of the cosmos, the weaver of time, the orchestrator of events, could sit from his heavens and rest from his work — why shouldn’t I? Especially in my frailty and finitude. A young cook, that I managed to corner, spoke energetically (perhaps frantically; he seemed afraid at something in my eyes) as he listed a recipe that consists of peanut butter and evaporated milk.

The evaporated milk sounds counterproductive to my heart healthy diet and the peanut butter, quite honestly, sounds awful. I hate peanut butter with less passion than oats; I can’t imagination a combination of the two creating anything worthwhile.