I’m holed up in one room with all my worldly goods, to avoid the housecleaners. It feels as if I’m under seige! Me and my most precious possessions, which I want to save from breakage, from clumsy handling, from disrespect. We are all displaced for the afternoon.
But there’s sun in the window, and spring cherry tea in my St.-Martin-in-the-Fields bone china cup, and a pot of herbs on the kitchen sill. And if I hadn’t brought work home I’d be tempted to address my Christmas cards instead of leaving them for Christmas Eve as usual (I used to always write them on the plane for Kona, happy to finally have some uninterrupted time in this most frantic of months).
But there’s sun in the window, and spring cherry tea in my St.-Martin-in-the-Fields bone china cup, and a pot of herbs on the kitchen sill. And if I hadn’t brought work home I’d be tempted to address my Christmas cards instead of leaving them for Christmas Eve as usual (I used to always write them on the plane for Kona, happy to finally have some uninterrupted time in this most frantic of months).
Tomorrow I must cook some chicken in the crock pot with buttery soft Niçoise olives, garlic, tarragon, and Herbes de Provence redolent of lavender fields in last summer’s sun.
The light is beginning to fade now, to bleach and cool, and I feel my mood taking on a chilly edge as well. We’ll eat up the leftover winter vegetable minestrone, and try to stay warm in this icy cottage built on a slab of concrete as if on a little iceberg minus only the polar bears.
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