Butter. Eggs. Powdered Wigs. Painted Smiles. (Copy)

Today I started this notebook. I was putting it off - there was always something coming up demanding my time, allowing me to procrastinate journaling online.

And here I am. On my favorite armchair with my laptop. I can smell the brioche I just baked. It's cooling on the rack in the kitchen.

Brioche. Some might say, "A fussy bread for demanding palates."

I'm not a big fan, but I made it anyway. I am more of a focaccia, baguette, and rustic artisanal round loaf person.

Earlier, I rummaged through my drawer and found an old lipstick—my favorite shade—that was used up, worn to the nub, and down to the metal. Don't know why I kept it. I was looking at it, just sort of staring at it—in wonder.

"Painted smiles" came to mind. As I threw out the tube, I realized I threw out a tool for creating masks.

The lipstick was a cylinder of painted performance.

The painted lip. The very thing that was vital for the perfect kabuki or geisha appearance. Dramatic. Extravagant. Artistic.

Yet that tube was something I couldn't be without. Coverup? I don't know....

Meanwhile...

The brioche, in the kitchen, performed its display of sophistication and wealth—a bread bearing the weight of a rich dose of butter and eggs.

Every time I think 'brioche,' I think Marie Antoinette.

You know, with her famous line—"Let them eat cake."

They say it wasn’t even cake — she was referring to something closer to brioche. The story changes depending on who tells it.

And she probably never muttered that line—although she could have. It sounds like something she could have said.

My mind went back to the lipstick I threw in the garbage. Expensive. Although I don't bother with lipstick now, I did insist on wearing that expensive brand all the time for years. (I am not about to advertise the brand...but you know what I mean...the ones that charge for the hype...)

At one time, I considered it a must. Felt naked without it. Wouldn't go out with its smear. It's a painted touch.

No different from what a powdered wig was to the ladies of the court back then—just a necessary part of the costume, worn until one became indistinguishable from the next person. Or until the costumed one became indistinguishable from their costumed true self.

And I made a brioche. I prefer rustic...the artisan loaf.

A rustic loaf doesn't have the same 'finesse' as a brioche, I suppose?

You know, the Earl of Sandwich was said to have 'invented' the sandwich. Is that why it 'caught on'? Did the leftovers between two pieces of bread become de rigueur because an Earl made it a meme?

We have seen buffoonery over the centuries.

Are we still at it?