Time has seemed to run in fits and starts this week as Gerry and I have been busy making plans and decisions and getting things done. As I sit here early on Friday morning and cast my mind back over the week that was, it is a blur. Trusting that as I put some thought
I wake from a dream in which I had returned to work in a similar role as one I was once very proficient in. I was, shall we say, less so in the dream and in my early wakefulness ponder what I remember and what’s lost to me about the technical aspect of my former
As I’ve been pondering blogging, what it once was, and what I imagine it returning to now, I remembered The Simple Woman’s Daybook. Months ago, when I was really struggling, I began listing things in my journal that I saw, smelled, tasted, heard, and felt as a grounding practice. It sounds simple, but it helped.
Gerry brings home two flats of plump, sweet raspberries. I wash and crush some; cook and stir and sweeten them; fill jars with jam and set them in the water bath canner to process. It’s ridiculously cool outside for late June but in the kitchen where I work you’d never know it. While the jam
I pull the KitchenAid from the cupboard where it languishes lonely most of the time, and rummage around looking for the dough hook. Then I dump flour, yeast, kosher salt, and water in the bowl and, after it’s kneaded the dough for eight minutes while I putter around doing other things, wonder why I don’t
I love my kitchen in the morning at this time of year. It’s dark when I pad from our bedroom to the kitchen to make the first cup of coffee. The only light comes from the AeroGarden that comes on automatically at around 4:30 am. It’s warmer in here than in the bedroom where the
My Christmas cactus is in bloom. Pretty and pink on my kitchen windowsill, it is a spark of joy in the dark and early morning as I wait for the Keurig to do its very important work. I saw something that explained, based on the shape, the difference between Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter cactuses. Maybe