I was thinking about all the times I've burned the butter, or some other fail, and how writing it out always made me feel better. It quieted the hum, gave it closure. Move on.
I was thinking about it last night because, in fact, I did not burn the butter. I made a delicious soup - still adjusting to the August temperature here of sixty degrees and for the life of me I could not get warm enough - and it was uneventful. But it was, because it was good. For some reason that is less likely to go down in my history, although I have a knowing that my kids will be more likely to remember when their favorite dinners tasted good. At least that is my hope.