"Sitting in your favorite spot, are you?" my son says with a grin as he comes home from work and sees me sitting on a stool at the end of the island, surveying the new landscape.
I didn't know it would be my favorite spot.
But from here I can watch a July sun sink behind the poplar in the back yard,
can see the tips of my peonies and the faded blooms of the lilac in the front,
watch the bread bake,
catch sight of Hobbs (our orange cat) as he nabs a wayward fly on the window sill.
Most comings and goings are visible from here. It anchors me, orients me.
"Your new kitchen will have to teach you how to bake in it," my friend told me.
Yes, yes indeed.
My rhubarb has reached epic proportions as I have willfully ignored it this spring,
thinking that I had better things to do.
It just kept growing,
completely unmindful of my neglect,
beautiful red thin spears of tart flavor covering the entire corner of the garden.
No thick woody stems of spite.
Yesterday it was bread, and this morning it was rhubarb muffins.
My son was off for an early morning of work,
so I figured I would see if I could work with a new oven, and new placements of EVERYTHING ... flour, baking powder
(no baking soda - we used that up in sand castle volcanos with our grandsons last week!),
sugar, cutting boards, knives, measuring cups ...
where did I put that again??
Success was moderate - muffins were on the counter by the time he came up for breakfast but I hadn't been able to find the cook book with my favorite recipe, and the crumbly topping wasn't ready for the first batch - had to wait for the second pan. Adam was out the door by the time those were ready. But there was a rhubarb grin on his face.
So far this has nothing to do with moose tracks or morning glories ...
but I haven't written for a very long time.
There is such disorientation of a house in disarray, and decisions to be made;
often I write the title of a post before the post. So I'll stick with it.
-my favorite ice cream (a Safeway Lucerne brand)
-echos of a wonderful week at Redberry Bible Camp, where I told stories of moose (plural: moosin) and of a risen Lord, and enjoyed rich conversations with campers
-those stealth self-seeding vines that begin quietly, and have now reached the take-over stage. They are throttling innocent day-lily blooms, taking down tomatoe plants, and running around the peas producing their last meagre pods.
This is a season of being anchored, and present.
I am content - deep down content.