Awaking to a rainy Sunday morning, I roll out of bed and sleepily start to brew the first of many pots of coffee.
Cracking eggs, stirring in milk, and dunking bread, we feast on french toast for breakfast, greedily gulping down mugs of piping hot coffee while talking of dreams.
Cookies to bake and macaroons to dunk in chocolate to be donated to a bike race, he left, leaving me with an empty, clean kitchen.
Cookbooks cover my Sunday morning kitchen table, with distracted thoughts jumping from King Cake to rye bread to honeyed apple torte, to Mardi Gras dinner plans, and always, always back to I think I should brew another pot of coffee.
With a chicken scratched grocery list a quick trip to the store to pick up only the essentials, back before the dog wakes from her nap.
The clean kitchen quickly begins to look like my normal kitchen, pots and pan strewn about, measuring cups scattered, flour, sugar, vegan butter and real butter dotting every flat surface.
Eggs to crack, cake to make, dishes to wash, bread to knead.
House fills with aromas so comforting as the outside clouds begin to break and the sun shines if only for a minute.
Cookbooks cover my Sunday morning kitchen table, and my life is good.