Thursday, plain and simple

The yeast and honey are proofing in the ancient, solid stoneware bread bowl that was my great grandmother's. I debated whether to climb up the chair, onto the counter so that my little arms could reach it, thinking that perhaps I could make do with a smaller metal bowl, but tradition and common sense (if the other metal bowl was practically full with the 7+ cups of flour, where would I actually have room to mix?) won out.

The house is quiet. The cats follow me around, up the stairs, down the stairs, into bedrooms, back out again. Their quizzical little expressions follow me with impertinence. The orange girl, fluffier than I recall still climbs up between the fabric and plastic shower curtains to oversee my ablutions.

Today there is no snow falling, the warmth that radiates from the black asphalt is a promising sign that maybe, just maybe, the winter is finally over. There are small buds poking their heads out of the thawing ground and the few, white, icy patches that remain are quickly receding in the mid-afternoon sun.

I know I'll need to get to work soon, that my temporary respite has got to end and my (aching) work ethic needs to kick in. Work. It has to happen. No more morning surprises and day long wanderings. The kitchen is in order, scrubbed, disinfected, streamlined to my specifications. I can live with this, I think. For a while. I'll begin my work soon, I reiterate to myself in an effort to convince me of the rightness of the endeavor, but for now, I'll just bake some whole wheat yogurt bread, read one of the books I discovered in the overflowing basement, and when my kid comes home, take her out for a game of ball.