There are travesties unfolding in my kitchen as I type. Burger patties (not hand-formed but shaped-at-the-store) seasoned with Tony's Creole, with a malcontentment of goat cheese. It'll taste great, I promise. Some of the little cherub tomatoes made a run into the bottom of the oven, realizing in their own way the daydreams of dogs,
imagining plotting an escape around the edge of the front door, a jolly chase through the fourth day of a drenchingly heavy, tropical storm rain.
The entire downstairs has become an installment of Beach Living after only two days, covered in a fine silt of dried, sandy mud and whatever unmentionables trail in from the backyard zoo. Vacuum time is upon us once again.
The peaches were all brought in because the thick damp has them rotting on the tree. I salvage what I can and it simmers on the stove top with skins still on. I have measured nothing. I hope that with the sugar and lemon slices it will cook down to something pleasant. (Typically, this method works for me.) The skins may be another issue. I just couldn't handle peeling all the rescued bits. If the texture is objectionable I'll just run it all through the blender: voilà! jam.
Sunset is near, and behind it this week's day of rest. Let the travesties unfold, in my house and outside it. I choose to unplug from the news, from all that is work. I'll spend time with Marc and Isaac. I'll spend time missing Eve who is at camp. There will surely be Buffy (Vampire Slayer) to watch, knitting to knit. Perhaps there will also be art to create or music to play, perhaps a book to read.
Happy being, friends.