The potatoes are not the reason I wrote this post.

We've been in our new place for a month and I think we've finally fully adjusted.

We haven't gone out for food in lieu of cooking dinner (unless we were invited out) since the day we put food in the fridge and I feel a heck of a lot better about that. All I did was complain about the restaurants in Norwalk and now that I have a million outside my door, I don't give a shit. Tonight, I made a turkey tenderloin with okra and stewed tomatoes, mashed potatoes and gravy from scratch. Tonight, I also learned that you should not make mashed potatoes out of the new lower carb SunLite potatoes, unless you like them gummy and sticky. Some potato flakes fixed this, while simulataneously voiding the seal of homemade and adding back the carbs that were painstakingly, genetically removed from the SunLite potatoes in the first place.

The potatoes are not the reason I am writing this post.

Whenever I move into a new place--when I moved to Connecticut, when I moved from a bedroom to the basement in Connecticut, when we moved to a nicer house in Connecticut and now, moving back to Florida and here--it always takes time to adjust back into writing.

Today, now, I'm feeling good again. I just finished writing this week's Ribcage story, so the story should actually be on time this week! Heck, I'm sure I'll be posting it at the stroke of midnight. Also, it's about tomatoes.

I started writing another story, titled, When You Learn that People Never Change and it has nothing to do with Ribcage. So far, I really, really like it. And to Jeremy, or whomever else took notice of my post on Sheila Heti... Elise will verify that I started writing this story and planning the chapbook it will hopefully be a part of, days before I discovered Heti. But it's so damn similar in style, it scares me. I guess it shouldn't--Heti is some love-child of Dave Eggers and Amy Hempel and so am I. With me it's just influence, but Heti surely involved fornication, devine creation or gene splicing.

I really, really want to write a story titled, My Name is Tom Hanks, but we'll see about that. If I can't write a story named My Name is Tom Hanks, I might as well get a job in sanitation.

All of this has to take a backseat to the non-fiction book, I must mention. If I don't, my grandmother will call and ask me how I am going to pay my power bill.

But my writing is only half of why I am writing this post.

Elise is painting her third painting of the evening. Granted, it's going to be a four painting set, she's on motherfucking fire tonight.