We take turns making dinner. Always have. This changes only when the other is buried in work, illness, or existential morass. I made dinner last night, but it wasn't a real dinner. It was ruben sandwiches.
Ruben sandwiches are messy to make, and the best people to make them are diner cooks. They have a big, flat cooking surface that was probably built greasy. It doesn't matter if the sauerkraut tumbles out or the dressing spills. Me, I get neurotic about the innards becoming outards. I work delicately. I baby the sandwiches when I flip them. I make it more work than it needs to be.
Then I feel guilty over the size of them. They are slivers of sustenance. They are credit card-thin. I make two of them for each of us. This can't be my attempt at making a supper: Two-dimensional appetizers that are ready in 20 minutes. It's not equal work. I must construct delicious tower for my baby mama.
I continue to work on the comic. After two pages, I see that I am timid in my panel structures. I must flesh it all out more. I must push. I'm glad to realize this now, at this point. The comic is telling me what I need to do. I'm glad to have this much progress and yet have enough time to adjust and correct. I'm also delighted to be making a 20-page comic.
Picture of the Day
I'm developing this kind of collaboration.