When baking sweet potatoes, always throw in an extra or two for pancakes and muffins. That is my advice. Or soups. Or curries. Or whatever. Sweet potatoes go in everything.
I feel like we're running late because of the time change and I don't like that. Supposedly Mr. Moon is going to bring the plants in this morning before we go to Waylon's birthday because he's going to be gone for most of the next month, really, hunting in Georgia and in Canada and it'll probably freeze during at least part of that time and I can't bear to lose my beloved plants. This way I won't be faced with plummeting temperatures and nothing but blankets for the plants. Some of them are just too heavy for me to move and some of them even require him to use a little hand-truck thing or whatever you call it. My split leaf philodendron, the mango I started from a Roseland seed, my giant begonias, my bird's nest ferns. These are the ones that leave me crying and cursing in the cold twilight as I try to figure out what to do with them to save them, he with his strong arms and back far away and doing me no good whatsoever.
But not this year. Right?
I do not really like winter so much. I hate being cold. I hate wearing socks. When I wash my face in the morning the water is icy, that bathroom being one quarter of a mile from the water heater. I would waste gallons and gallons of water waiting for it to heat up and I refuse to do that just to wash my face. A startling way to wake up.
Maurice killed a bird last night. It broke my heart. A brown thrush sort of bird and there you go with cats- one minute they are all soft fur and velvet, the next they are killing machines, tearing into the soft breast of a song bird, feathers flying. They are as much a conundrum as humans are.
As much as mysterious mix of god and demon.
And so it goes on a Sunday morning, time all changed up by us gods who simply turn back our clocks and say, "Look! We have the power to change time!" while the chickens fretted in their coop, kept enclosed an hour later than usual as we dawdled over our pancakes, reading the paper, drinking coffee, safe in our knowledge that we'd created this new pocket of time to do with as we wanted.
They know better.
And so do we.
I feel as if I am late. Among other things. That I feel, that is. Some of them good, some of them as frightening as the tooth and claw of a cat.