Perhaps pandemic problems are putting pressure on me. Suppose springing clocks ahead has my systems stumbling. Come to think of it, could the chicken carcass in my chill chest have been calling?
Inspired by those influences, I simmered stock this afternoon with minced mirepoix and that nearly picked-clean piece of poultry, padded the pot with beans and barley, along with herbal hints (thyme, rosemary, marjoram).
After barely bubbling through the afternoon, it's done for dinner and, in anticipation, I almost feel fine, better than before.