After several busy days, I’m feeling more centered again for having the wooden bread board relieved of its hardened layer of cookie dough, oiled and put away. The sheep cookies are dreaming lemon zested dreams on a Provençale plate. The seeded spelt crackers sit tidily in their box awaiting the crumbs of Chaumes and Welsh Tintern; and though a generous new bag of turmeric hides our hand-painted “Amore” tile, until I can decide where to put it, it seems appropriate somehow that it should do so. No turkey vultures are falling out of trees this morning, and two cars of lost souls (parents for graduation?) are being directed back to the road by our landlady with her bowl of just-gathered young lettuces.
I have presents to wrap (a pile of favorite memoirs), and cards to write, besides the house title to proof for errors, but the day began with mint white tea and a lake meditation, and a piece of sea green glass reflects on ancient tides (though not too ancient, being glass) beside my Henry Dearle “orchard” cup, bone china from St. Martin-in-the-Fields, and with just a bit of Mozart this will be another perfect day—after the perfect day of picnicking with friends and Rodin’s caryatids yesterday (swordfish and bright green chimichurri sauce, reminding me of the seller of spada who came down along the sea in a little three-wheeler on the island between Italy and Africa one long-ago summer).
image: Provence Mon Amour