I cooked this afternoon. The garage needed cleaning, but while I was moving boxes I suddenly remembered two in the pantry, Barilla manicotti wedged against the wall on the right side of the first shelf from the bottom, a "gift" from my mother-in-law, who had forgotten how to use them. They've been sitting there since the invasion of Iraq was a tulip poking out through the snow in a right-wing ideologue's eye. It's time to figure out what we still have in store. At least that's what I tell myself as I move the books and papers from one time capsule to the next. If only I could release the tension they hold inside. I can smell the storm coming. It sets the aroma of freshly melted cheese off nicely. "Breathe," I implore. The labor has commenced.