Apparently whatever the necessary quorum of injured and virally loaded has been reached in Baton Rouge. We get another week puttering around the house, pausing in front of televisions whose channels we’ve already plumbed, settling on games for a play or two before flipping to the next station, knowing that we’ve lost our focus.
It’s like someone invited us to a beautifully laid November table: crystal glasses filled with whites from the Loire and reds from the Rhone, dressing drenched in gravy, the creamiest of green bean casseroles, cornbread that reminds everyone of their own sainted relative’s recipe, scalloped potatoes gooey with Gruyere, something extracted from a mould that is most likely cranberry, and pumpkin pies with a whip cream so delicate that people call it Chantilly.