It is still raining. The sort of rain that makes you believe just the slightest that the Noah story could have been true. It is the sort of rain that sounds exactly right- as if this is the sound that we will hear for the rest of our days and nights. That constant and insistent.
But it's nice. And it's so much cooler. Not cold, but cool. Definitely not crisp but a break from the infernal heat we've been experiencing. Instead of it being eighty degrees in the hallway, it is sixty-eight. So, perfect for having my husband home for cuddles and cooking soup and putting on the Goodwill cashmere. I simmered chicken all day long and have added garlic and onions and celery and green beans and carrots and red cabbage and thyme and soy sauce and a bit of brown rice. When it's almost time to eat, I will squeeze a lemon in there too. Once again I have focaccia rising (so easy to make, so quick to rise) and I think I will chop some tomatoes and olives to go on top before I bake it and perhaps grate a bit of asiago cheese on it too. Basil? Why not?
Sundays should be like this. Little chores and slow cooking. Welcome home kisses and slow, long-time loving. Rain to make staying in and doing nothing a joy rather than a source for guilt. Time for appreciation of that which we have, letting that-which-we-should-be-doing go for a moment or two. A weather enforced day of pleasure and napping, appreciating and enjoying.
If I were a religious woman, I would say that my god would approve. At any rate, I certainly do.