The sun has been hurting my eyes.
The house is cool and dark, except in the kitchen, where the sun angles through the corner of the window. It reminds me of Iowa, even though I’ve never been there.
There’s a small pile of dirty dishes from the morning. I throw away junk mail and feed the cats.
I feel like fashioning something with my hands. Patting and shaping. I don’t know what causes this urge. I haven’t figured out if it’s the process of creating or the satisfaction of looking at something I’ve made that fulfills me. Either way, I just like it. I like busy hands.
If I was a bird, I’d just sit and admire my nest all day. Maybe add a few twigs or bits of moss. Some dried grass for the inside.
I put on my old baker’s apron. I always feel happy when I have the apron on. Maybe the key to happiness is an apron with friendly pockets.
I’m making four cheese quiche. I’d planned to blow out the eggs and save the shells to decorate. I should have spent more time in the store selecting quality eggs. They are bumpy and speckled and I’m annoyed to find two eggs already broken. “There’s one good eggshell,” I say to myself, thinking about the book I’m reading, One Good Horse. I’m so in love with that book.
I roll out the dough and listen to Under Cold Blue Stars by Josh Rouse. I chop and grate and whip.
While the quiche bakes I wash dishes and think about other pies, other houses, and other hot summer nights.
Something about the sun and the light and the kitchen smelling good.