On Wednesday night, I did something dumb.
It was late. The Giants and Dodgers were about to begin the eighth inning. I took advantage of the commercial break to transfer the golden, divinely aromatic chicken stock that I’d simmered all day into sealable container.
I chose a glass container. It shattered from the heat, and a half-gallon of boiling chicken stock waterfalled onto my feet.
After the Giants started the series with two exciting wins, my mind, always eagerly playing hide and seek with any and all reasons for optimism, began to wander.