Dear Diary,

Today Angie came over and set this up for me. I told her how Frank reads my diary when he sends me shopping, so I don't trust writing in the flimsy book. Angie understands my need for privacy. She swears she won't be able to read this when she is done. She swears Frank won't even know I've created this. So I can write whatever I want. Writing was the only good thing the couch doctor insisted on. It's so much easier to keep track of things if I can write them all out and look them up again later. So now I'll write everything to you. I hope you don't mind.

I suppose I should introduce myself. I'm Jeanne Berkley, and I'm 33 years old. I have brown eyes and brown hair, and I live a very brown life. I hate brown. Brown is dirty. Dirt is the enemy. Too bad bleach doesn't work on eyeballs.

Today I made brownies for Angie. She gives me special ingredients, and I show her how to bake. Too bad her mother won't teach her how to cook properly. But then, her mother is never home. She offers me her brownies, but I get too giggly, and I burn Frank's dinner, and he doesn't like that very much. I don't blame him. Burned dinners are very brown.

I bought more vodka today. Frank has said I may make medicinals again. Oh the joys of a good strawberry cordial! Slice the fruit to 1/4" and pile in a mason jar. Then pour over the vodka, seal, and let it rest. Sometimes, I just open the pantry door to stare at the jar of neatly sliced berries. I like cranberry too, but it's not as neat. You must mash the berries, or at least pop them. It's a mess. But it still comes out red. Proper cordials are red. Beets make a pretty cordial. But it doesn't taste as good.

Frank will be home soon. I'll make chicken and stuffing casserole with corn in it. I'll pretend the whole dish is the color of the corn, so it won't be brown. I still hate the way Frank hid the food colouring. Why can't I find the blue? This dish should be more blue. Then we wouldn't need corn.
  ¶ 1:26 AM