My best friend just discovered that she's pregnant!
At the moment it is the size of a poppy seed.
Congratulations Annalise and baby Poppy!

hot hot hot

It is a very hot day. Very. Hot. Day.
I melted into a sad little puddle at work. A weird collage of syrup splatters interspersed with coffee grounds decorated my arms and legs and chest and face and neck. I'm sure they were other places. On days like this it seems that everything wants to stick and creep and spill on me.
However I triumphed over two ridiculous young men when I told them that the more they flirted with me, the better they'd have to tip me. They were incredibly silent and polite thereafter. When they drove away I found 5 dollars in my little jar.
Bless God for giving me sass and wit.


Trial and Error

My darling mother never used recipes for cooking while I was growing up. Oh we had cookbooks, and I made devout and religious study of them. But mum would throw in a little of this, a handfull of that, and stick it in the oven for oh however many minutes, and wuah-lah! Perfection! She has this magical sense for when something was 'done'. She knew precisely how a chickens leg should wiggle when it was cooked to tender, juicy perfection. She knew exactly how browned a biscuit should be when it had reached fluffy, flaky perfection. Ah! If I could only reach such a height of knowledge!
I've been feeling very ambitious and brave and housewifely in my kitchen lately. With only 3 weeks to go before transforming into Mrs. David Silliman, I decided that I should get a handle on cooking meals that men can eat. I am sadly handicapped however, having only one 8/13 pan and one little pot. My options have been to make either a miniscule amount of food, or righteous heaps of it! I've gone for the heaps of it, which seems to thrill my fiance to pieces.
"I love how you always make way too much food!" he exclaims in delight. "I always have enough for lunch the next day!"
My most recent endeavor came in the form of biscuits. I'd picked ever so many raspberries that day, but realized that they were so ripe they wouldn't last thru the night. I wanted so badly to make shortcake, but had no heavy cream, so biscuits it had to be. Now I'm not sure if my mother actually had magic fairy dust, or if I just rolled them out too thinly, but my biscuits did not achieve the 'mile high' state which I was hoping for. Oh, the flavor was divine, just divine in a very flat way.
One simply cannot eat berries and biscuits without a little whipped cream, but I lacked such a luxery. In my eager state I decided to whip half and half. If you ever need to laugh hysterically, I recommend doing this! It foams! In five seconds I had a huge bowl full of fluffy white foam, and David found me in stitches on my kitchen floor.
Despite these drawbacks, my man raved about everything, and a funny thing happened. Perhaps I had a little magic fairy dust of my own, but in eating those sad little biscuits covered in raspberries and foam, he fell madly in love with me all over again! And I realized that however sadly I fail in the kitchen, his utter adoration of me will always provide the motivation to try, try again.

My Grey Morning

It is a grey day. Lightly falling from the silvery grey cloud cover is transparent grey drizzle, and over the lawn a grey mist clings to the grass with damp, wistful fingers. When I hand drinks through the drive-thru window of my coffee shop, my arms are baptized with a vague sprinkling of water that reminds me of the vegetable mistings in the produce aisle.
People are so interesting on mornings like these. The air is filled with quiet bustling; there are urgent things to be discussed! Grandchildren, the death of lilies, the restoration of a classic car, the ridiculously slow internet connection, the cute little barista's wedding details. Yes, I am getting married in 3 weeks from today! I am met with widely varied responses to that news.
"Congragulations...I guess" one little woman says quietly with a sideways glance at her quiet little husband beside her. I've always assumed that they're happy, but perhaps appearances are more deceiving than I give them credit for.
I brew enormous pots of drip coffee this morning. The names of the different roasts make me laugh: Organic Tatoosh, a deep, dark piercing blend with a little roller coaster of an aftertaste that begs to be tasted again; Espresso Paledino, which invariably brings a picture of a horse to mind; and my favorite, Guatemala Huehuetenango, a name that makes me want to sneeze. They are like the children of faraway and foreign lands, sent to bring a little culture and beauty into our decidedly bland American lives. One exotic woman with tiny, fiery blue eyes orders the light Huehuetenango with 5 - count them, five! - sugars and absolutely no cream. She speaks of her coffee like it is a thrilling, holy secret we are sharing with her.
The breeze sneaks in the window and laughingly kicks the dark coffee grounds across the counter. I want an entire room painted this color; this deep, deep brown with a gorgeous hint of red. It is so vivid you can almost taste the way it looks.
Fall is gently but firmly hinting at it's coming. All the coffee shop folk feel it with mounting excitement, tinted with a soft disappointment in this brief and fickle summer. We feel ourselves settling in, and thinking of books we want to read on grey days, cozied under blankets with new husbands or lovers, and of all the marvelous, strangely named coffee that we shall drink.