My mother gave me the tea the came with her tea set, a British ‘weekend morning tea’. I drank it Saturday morning with cream and a bowl of oatmeal. Delightful. The house is all out of order from our days at home doing nothing. It’s nice to do nothing some days. Saturday we went nowhere. I made whole wheat bread and set ciabatta to rise, I threw a bowl, edited a poem and read with my feet tucked up on my rocking chair. On Sunday, we woke early enough to eat before Liturgy and still keep the fast. We had eggs, bacon, coffee, bread, and butter in the cold pre-dawn.
After mass, and still full from breakfast, we watched the frosted ground soften and my husband began making a nativity set while Yarrow chased Luba with her tiny broom and I filled my mind with herbs and tinctures. We ate bacon tuna melts with leftover creamy potato-broccoli soup for dinner, with Yarrow refusing everything but avocado and croissant. She would eat avocados forever if we had enough of them, washing them down with heavy cream until her fatness made the burden of clothes impossible.
Yarrow looks like she can't decide: "Chair, no chair; dressed, undressed...it's all so complicated!"
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