A Quiet Day

It began when my husband, himself not a coffee drinker, woke me with the scent of my favorite hot brew. This has been our weekend routine for some time now, ever since he learned to use my French press. He wakes, grinds the beans, measures out the water and the coarsely-ground, fragrant roast, presses, pours, and lets the oversized, steaming mug coax me from sleep. We sit in bed, talking of nothing in particular, while I lay against the pillows and sip and sip and sip.

A short time later, I made breakfast: slow-cooked oatmeal on the stove, garnished with Honeycrip apples and a bit of cinnamon. I stirred the milk as it steamed, scalding it to a pale and golden white, its warmth and scent a perfect complement to the slow, fall morning.

The day pressed on. The kids played; they built a tent out of blankets and the dining room table, and they took the kitty inside with them. We watched football. Kurt and the kids made popcorn. During the Penn State game, my son crawled up on the couch next to me and propped his cheek against my arm. It wasn’t long before I felt his head relax against me, nod just slightly forward. I lifted him into my lap. He shifted, and sighed, and smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, much the way infants do once they’ve fallen, sleepily, from the breast. Across the room, I could hear my daughter quietly talking, and talking, and talking to her Daddy.

For dinner, I made the best meatloaf of my life. A few weeks ago, I attempted tomato preserves; while the taste was perfection, the preserves didn’t set. I used some as a glaze on grilled pork, and tonight I used a jar to make meatloaf. Culinary goodness.



All I can say, today, is that sometimes beauty is simple and implicit.