Risotto, Slow Cookers, and Metaphorical Dirt

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It's Christmas Eve, and I'm waiting for Aidan to get out of the shower so we can go look at slow cookers. I am honestly excited about looking at slow cookers. Being honestly excited about slow cookers gives me weird feelings.

One of the slow cookers we're going to look at claims to make a proper risotto. My heart hops while I read five-star reviews, and I wonder if this is the metaphorical dirt being tossed on my lowering coffin. I am lying at the bottom of my life looking up while someone tosses creamy handfuls of muck on me.

I shouldn't judge my excitement about either slow cookers or risotto, though. Right now there is someone else out there who's stoked about things for the more settled among us, like elastic belts or triple-bladed windshield wipers. I'm not judging that person for what seemingly boring nothing gets them going. I don't pity them for having a toe in the hole already.

I love risotto. A slow cooker that makes decent risotto is a good thing. Neither of them forecast the end of my days more than anything else does in a world where nothing lives forever and everything is eventually forgotten.

Except for those jellyfish, the Turritopsis nutricula, of course. Those things live forever. Once they make it to sexual maturity, they're golden; it's clear sailing until the end of time, or at least until the end of the oceans. Although, maybe their young pity themselves the way we sometimes do ourselves when we find an age spot or a new patch of cellulite. Oh, poor me. I'm still so young. I could go at any time, they lament. They droop their tentacles and sway them slowly side-to-side. Poor me. What if I never get old?

Damn jellyfish. I bet they never obsess about the meaning of risotto and slow cookers while they trace the constellation of age spots on the back of their hand.