Frybread

I've been fried all week. Strange week. Have a lot of energy at work but collapsing in the evenings and thus, no writing done.

One day into the weekend and there's 1,700 words down. The whole Pueblo Cultural Center thing written. But...reviewing that work (after I woke up again, damn this sickness), realized I'd completely forgotten the mural. So now need to open one of my Kindle books, track that thing down, and slot it in.

On top of the open tabs I've got on pueblos of New Mexico, language groups, blue corn, and the Three Sisters. And oh boy is frybread a rabbit hole. Not just a million varieties, but history legacy and identity and, yes, even controversy. That is a hell of a lot to load on to one pancake. No wonder the stuff is nearly flat.*

These driving scenes are killing me. I end up talking about all sorts of strange things in them. The intent was to just make them contemplative, just a landscape passing almost as if in a dream. But I am not Tolkien. I can't fill three pages on how dry the rocks are. I couldn't even do it with a nice fat tree to describe.

And I'm not ready for the nuke museum scene. I wish I had work week still on me because dreaming up this one is good stuff for the mental back-burner. I have the edge of something with Penny imagining herself a Los Alamos wife (and it was wartime, so yeah, a lot of them were working inside the gates, too. Some even had degrees!) And somehow carrying this on to some sort of bad blood between a surly teen or an influencer or someone who damaged an exhibit, and blames Penny for getting in trouble over it.

Because I really do want that chase through the missile yard. And doing it with Penny half-thinking spies at Los Alamos...

But I'm losing my focus, so I'm gonna go watch the Tenth Doctor play the Fifteenth... 

* Frybread, described by many as an indispensable ingredient of a powwow...is made with wheat. Think about it for a moment.