On a cool morning, wrapped in my mom’s old pink bathrobe and still under the covers, I’m contemplating fried egg sandwiches with arugula, ricotta, and thyme, on country bread; and chicken salad made with Greek yogurt, cucumber, and dill. I’m wondering if I need a batik dress and crocheted cardigan for my Santa Fe trip. I’m being tempted by a sketching class and a Saturday workshop on plotting (which I’m still, always, no good at—instead just letting things happen as they will, in life as well as in writing).
I’m approving the sentiment “Resting and restoring are just as important as working”—though I’d say more, much more important. I’m remembering the tart sweetness of the small lemon scone I had for breakfast. I’ve sorted some piles, made sense of the kitchen, disordered yesterday. Something I want to do or write is niggling at my sleepy mind, not surfacing. (A small fish ruffling the otherwise untroubled surface of still lake or pond.)
I’m happily procrastinating, putting off finishing my mystery set on the St. Bernard Pass, the final dialogue with the Italian cook making her soup with white beans, chard, and fine-chopped root vegetables while the archaeology students are out tracing the Roman road. (Except the one who’s made off with the priceless Stendhal journal.)
Sundays are for sundry things.
image: Gustav Klimt, Pond at Schloss Kamer on the Attersee, 1909, I Require Art