Hadley got up off the couch where she was sitting and in a simple yet effective move, pushed the pot off the burner.īut not for me. “We have to do something!” I screamed and proceeded to do nothing because I am of the sort to point out a problem and do nothing about it. I believe boiled over chicken is that powerful, which is why I was acting like Hadley and I were being attacked. But goodness, couldn’t she smell it? Or maybe the smell dulled her senses. No, she did not see it because she was not in the kitchen. “What do you mean, what?” I said, pointing to the stove. “What is happening?” I croaked to anyone who would listen. Boiled over chicken is the smell of boredom. Come to think of it, no part of the day should smell like this. They should not smell like boiled over chicken.

Saturday mornings should smell like fresh brewed coffee, Earl Grey tea, bacon, and blueberry pancakes, or sourdough toast with Irish butter. Boiling over chicken is a disgusting smell, especially at well past 10 in the morning. Then, I go downstairs to find a pot with chicken in it boiling over on the stove. I woke up well past 10 that Saturday, trying not to feel guilty about it because I am more physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted than I’ve ever been in my life, but I was annoyed because 10am may as well be 4pm as far as I’m concerned. I had about 200 pages left – an amount that doesn’t seem like much given that the book is 1,124 pages – and I would crank them out in 48 hours, along with a few essays if it was the last thing I did. Some Saturday in late September, I was determined to finish Kristin Lavrandatter.

Kristin lavransdatter the cross