I'm making a quiche tonight and the pastry looks like something a five-year old lumberjack might have rolled out on a slice of cut tree with a branch.
Oh well. I'm cooking about eight vegetables to go in it along with some ham and of course the eggs are fresh and then there's cheese which pretty much makes everything good.
I'm listening to a Prairie Home Companion and it's a very old one but I'm enjoying it. Taj Mahal is on and I'm already so sad, thinking about the fact that Garrison is about to retire. It's okay. The world will continue, but not quite as I know it. I'm sure Chris Thele is going to be an excellent host and I'm happy that the program is going to emphasize music and musicians but no stories about Lake Woebegon? Ay-yi. I'm not sure I'm cool with that.
It's been a real good day and Mr. Moon made 98% on his hunting test and we had a perfect nap and before that, I went out and picked up and hauled branches as I said. A huge walnut limb fell directly on the burn pile last night which I thought was quite thoughtful of it.
I mean, BLAM! right on top of it. What more could you ask?
Not much. No. Not much at all.
My quiche is in the oven and with the leftover slab of thick, rough pastry dough I've made a tiny pie with fig preserves and a cut up peach, sprinkled with turbinado sugar and a little butter. I will give that to my sweet husband for his dessert.
It's been another one of those days for me wherein nothing happened but life and that's what a life is all about- one day after another, strung together like pearls. Some of them rough and some of them smooth and some of them dull and some of them lustrous and some of them white and some of them gray and some of them pink and some of them black and some of them round and some of them misshapen and all of them the result of the grain of sand in the oyster shell of our existence and if we could finger them like a rosary, we would be amazed at the beauty they all make together and we would delight in their differences, our fingers telling us that this day was gritty and this day was as polished as a pebble, decades in a rushing river, and maybe we would be able to remember them more clearly, maybe we would have perspective on all of it.
And maybe this is why I write here, to string together all of the days of this life, to give prayer to the beads I finger.
I do not know.
But it's what I do and maybe what you do as well.