|Sweet Pea from my garden.|
in the pan, the dishwasher
jungle that must be navigated so I can find the teapot that holds the amber liquid that jump starts my morning.
Clementine awaits expectantly, hoping her breakfast will take priority over mine, she is disappointed one more time. Fortunately, for her, all is not lost, her kibble is poured out, with measured thoughts, into her bowl. It is then I sit down to my own, breakfast, not kibble.
I view the list written the night before, thinking of several more items that must be added to the 1001 impossible things to be accomplished before bed.
When I was young, summer days lagged slowly in the heat, I picked produce from my mother's garden. Dragging myself into the afternoon, when I would be free to read underneath the willows out back of the house. My mother's rule was do your chores in the morning, then you are free until dinner. It was a good rule. It motivated us to get the livestock fed, the garden weeded, beds made and kitchen cleaned up, quickly.
Those long afternoons were heaven.
|Butternut Squash, which I also love.|
I 'm not sure exactly what happened. Now that I am the adult, the days fly past me, the lists grow longer, the summer afternoons are shorter.
All of this being said, it is glorious to be alive on summer days.