The quilt I am currently obsessed with is turning out well. The family is tolerant of the fact that it spends a part of every day spread out on the living room floor, obstructing traffic. It's just that I love looking at it. They are also accustomed to me forgetting to make food.

"Oh. It's six thirty. Who's hungry?" Apparently fabric nourishes me in a way that makes sandwiches superfluous. 

I posted pictures of the progress on Facebook and there have been a string of complimentary comments. Then yesterday a woman sent me a private message.

"How much?"

Suddenly I was yanked back from my sewing spree to money. How much? Awkwardly I started to tally up the hours, which had already compensated me with joy. Why would I need cash too? I methodically added up the fabric, which is always a messy calculation. How much black did I use? Do I have a coupon for the backing? While it felt like a poor translation from creativity to net worth I sent her a figure with two zeros. 

Now let me assure you that I am not opposed to selling quilts. I currently have a dozen on display at the local bakery, which have not exactly flown off the walls. I think three are gone, though in my epic business finesse I forgot to take inventory. But selling quilts is an entire universe apart from making them, and traveling between them takes time. Going too fast gives me the bends. 

There are maternal and wifely tasks that I perform willingly. No one had to beg me to nurse my babies, unless of course you count the baby. Which I guess I should. The other day I hopped in the car to go to the community garden to pick the season's first round of lettuce for John's lunch. That was not a task. It was a privilege. 

But sometimes when I am hauling trash cans to the corner a miserly part of me mutters to myself. 

"John, you owe me for this."

I wish I could be a permanent resident in the Land of Generosity. But so far I only have a green card.