What to do with extra egg yolks...

So, I woke up this morning and decided to make a meringue dessert to bring to my friend Brenda on Friday night. A proper meringue pavlova (I have never made this) takes 4 egg whites. This left me with 4 yolks and the only thing to do was make a challah type bread. Cinnamon and raisin bread seemed right - just the right level of temptation so I will want to binge on the result.  I figured I could write this while my dough rises. I'm also waiting for the first rise on a wholewheat loaf. 

So where am I today?
I woke up angry, irritated and generally looking for somewhere (someone) to blame - not a new feeling, but still unpleasant.  I am not likeable in this space. I like to believe I am always loveable, but likeable?  Feh! I am scratchy and acidic.

The builders are still here and have finally got the message about urgency so things are moving fairly quickly, but I am still living in a tiny space in one room surunded by boxes.  Years ago I realised just how important to me my house was, not just the style, size, location, etc. but the 'inner house' - the secure, warm, comfortable nesting place that becomes my bolthole in times of trouble.  When this 'inner house' is disturbed, as it seems to be now, I go wacky. I completely lose any sense of proprtion and more importantly, sense of self.  Why?

Again I go back to the hard-wired need for safety. Home is safe. Start knocking holes in it, or taking down ceilings and then the foundations start to tremble and so do I.  Identification with people and situations is one thing, but identification with 130 year-old bricks and mortar, well, that's pretty ridiculous.  Sometimes I wish I could be a much more centred tortoise, carrying my home on my back. Then I could at least complain that my shell was too heavy!

Blaming my long-suffering, sometimes patient, husband hardly works.
It is not his fault that the house needs repair.
It is not his fault that the builders are taking so long.
It is not his fault that I am home in one room during the day while he gets to go out and work.
It is not his fault that I so often want to blame someone and he is the closest person to me.
It is also not his fault that I am finding this so tough.
It is not his fault at all...

Sometimes when these feelings arise I feel like a I am searching for someone else to be responsible for all the feelings that I indulge in myself. Kind of like blaming the mirror when I don't think I look good. It's certain that I can always blame my parents and their emotional inheritance. I guess if I take this to its real extreme I might as well blame Hitler for all of that. That sounds pretty reasonable since,  hell, the English are still blaming him 70 years later, and he's as good a repository of blame as any other, but I can hardly blame Hitler for the state I woke up in this morning.

Lately I have been talking to friends about the nature of relationships and friendships and the need so many of us have, to be right. Why?  What do we lose by allowing the fact that sometimes (maybe more) we can be wrong. Or even more important, who gives a damn. In loving relationships it does not matter who's right and who's wrong. The only thing that matters is genuine compassion and love. When I am busy being right I can easily lose sight of the needs of the person I am making wrong. It has happened to me in the past that I have won a battle, but ultimately lost the war. Stop making war is the simple answer.

Well,  bread turned out fine, cinnamon raisin loaf turned out so good I had two slices and have now put the rest in the freezer since frozen temptation is much easier to resist.  Now to make my meringue pavlova. Wish me luck.