There’s a weird thing that happens to me when I’m immersed in a text: I sort of absentmindedly cook while I’m thinking about what I’m working on.
This is not a normal value of “absentmindedly”. It’s more like Patrick comes home and surprises me by asking about the quart jar of preserves that’s cooling on the kitchen counter. Preserves? When did that happen? And then, if I think about it, I can vaguely remember that yes, at some point I was standing in front of the stove, stirring a pot of something-or-other. I have no memory of thought or volition; just a hazy sense that it happened.
It happened again yesterday. What you’d have to know is that the knack of making omelets has always eluded me. But late yesterday morning when I was working at my table in the kitchen, I suddenly got up and made a perfect three-egg cheese omelet with bits of spinach, green onion, and tarragon snipped into the egg mixture. It not only folded in half properly, it quartered, too; and there I was, blinking and bemused, with a plated omelet in my hand.
Reader, I ate it.