A Sunday blown through with rain, buffetty, quite
plain. Consideration is given to finding long trousers but for now we muddle
through with shorts and boots.
The front door is open and the stove lit, the jam pan
scrubbed from yesterday's boiling; that bubbled obsidian and set ruby; four
crammed jars wait for labels, another is open, waiting for the halt of the
bread maker's ruminations.
A greedy glimpse shows azurite, under the kitchen's
electric bulb. Washing in the lovely machine tumbles.
The fabulous smell of bread.
Dog eats up her chicken scraps and upstairs the sneaky
rain-damped Cat is sleeping on some folded clothes.
Beautiful words!
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Bread is among the more fabulous smells in the world, is it not?
ReplyDeleteVery comforting stuff, bread. Even without the delectable jam! Thank you ladies- feel like I should offer you a slice but it's all been eaten :-)
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