Rolling out of bed on Monday mornings is difficult, especially after a week end of beautiful weather. Except for a short trip each year to a place far away, I think I could be happy just staying here each day. I have spent years setting up “centers” for myself around here – fruit trees, the woods, a place to paint, a quiet spot to write, my garden, the chickens, the small burning pile near the woods, the keeping room at sundown when the light filters through the blinds and a fresh cup of coffee to sip will I watch, and my kitchen.
I have to stop looking at recipe books during the week. There are too many things to make and bake like loaves of persimmon, carrot, sweet potato, and pumpkin bread and an interesting recipe for spinach lasagna. I escaped this flurry in my head by going outside – to the garden – to plant turnip and carrot seeds, and broccoli plants and dismissed the idea of all of the above and settled on smothered okra for a gumbo next week.
Anyway, I could handle more of this; I may just understand why Emily Dickinson never left home for 26 years.