Sunday Brunch At The Church Of The Batshit Crazy

I am so hungry and why shouldn't I be? It's almost ten-thirty and I haven't eaten yet.
Sunday morning and here I am all by myself and there isn't one piece of bacon in the house! Not one! I can't get past this fact and figure out what to eat. I could eat some of my twigs and stems cereal but the soy milk, she is old.
Ick.
I could make a smoothie but I don't want to. Fruit and yogurt is all very fine but Sunday mornings are for food-sin and yet- no bacon.
And no one here for me to make pancakes for or an omelet and biscuits. No one here to say, "Yes, I'd love a poached egg."

Mr. Moon is off in the woods and the children are all where they live or at work or doing whatever it is they do on Sundays when they're not here.

Waffles. I could make waffles.
No. I don't want bread-y foods. I want protein.

Ah. Since I started writing this, Lily called. She has some bug and it's upset her tummy and she's been in bed a lot, tired and achy. She said that last night Jason tried to keep Owen out of the bedroom so she could rest but that every now and then they'd come in and give her kisses and then go back out to watch the game.

Such sweetness.

I told Lily she needed to eat some salty broth, some chicken soup.
Food. It's so important. We need it, it brings us comfort, it is the very essence of the existence of most animals- getting it, eating it, and it's funny how we, in this time and in this place, have so much of it around that we merely need to think of what it is we would like to eat, and even if we live in the distant village of Lloyd, we can be at a grocery store in a few moments to buy it.
And there's even a Waffle House within ten minutes drive.

Bacon. They have SO much bacon at the Waffle House.

Well, I don't want to get in the car. There's venison sausage in the freezer in the garage and that is easily gotten and cooked. I think I'll have a little piece of that with some eggs cooked with potatoes and tomatoes and pepper and onions.
Sunday brunch for one.

Another thing Lily talked about was nursing Owen. How sometimes she thinks he needs a bottle but really, he just wants to nurse. He wants her, his mother, and the thing she has to offer him which no one else can. Isn't that the very basis of comfort food? That closeness, that mother-warmth, that sweet milk that is made for the baby and the baby alone?
I think so.

All right. Time to get this day truly going. It is warming up. I can feel the sun's heat settling down across the night-cooled earth. Time to hang out the clothes I've already washed. Or, put in the washer and turned on. I've fed the chickens and the dogs. Time to feed me.
Just me, on a Sunday.
I'm worth getting out a skillet for. I'm worth hiking out to the garage for that piece of sausage. I'm worth going out to the garden to see if I can find a bit of baby greens to throw in with my eggs.

Here. I've taken some pictures this morning.
Lloyd on Sunday. The Church of the Batshit Crazy has begun services, I hear Elvis calling the flock together.
The "You're sweet! You're sweet!" bird is back and that's a hymn of praise if I ever heard one.

Here are the pictures and after I show them to you, I'm going to go make my meal. A holy communion of the egg (I still have a few of Miss Betty's eggs and I suppose today would be a good day to eat them and I will mourn her, even as her last gifts, so sweetly given, nourish me) and the flesh of the sacrificed deer, the vegetables to go with.
Perhaps a piece of the bread I made the other night.

I hope you are having good services where you live.
Here's my church:

The morning sun shining between the house and the original kitchen.

The chinaberry tree, reaching out a stark branch across the back yard.

A pinecone lily's blossom.


A tiny impatiens in a tiny pot in a tiny bird bath in the front yard.

The tea olive whose bloom is so small I am never aware of them until I smell their powerful perfume as I walk across the yard. Sweetness magnified to glory.

The huge and gaudy Confederate Rose. It has no scent but is sweet to the eye.

Chickens in the time of molting. Elvis has lost every one of his tail-feathers and as you can see, feathers litter the ground. That rooster still thinks he's hot shit. And he's right. He is.

Buster, sad because is dad is not here on a Sunday morning to cuddle with. He has his hands folded together, though. Is he praying? Do dogs pray? If they do, it is for bacon.

I understand.

Mmmm. Time to heat up the pan. Time to chop the vegetables. Time to get out the eggs.
Time, oh yes, for the belly to be fed.
I have fed my soul with walking the yard, taking the pictures, feeding the chickens, and mostly, with sitting here, writing words in the quiet morning.

So far, a perfect Sunday.

Remember- You're sweet. I am too. Sometimes.
Oh. Let us eat.