Yesterday I folded towels. Holding them with my chin while arms brought the edges together, I felt their heat against my chest and I inhaled the scent of hot metal and Bounce. Running my fingers over their nubby texture, I rolled them into fat sausages, the better to stand them in their woven basket, and stood back to admire the interplay of their colors: taupe, burnt orange, and brick red.

I made spicy sausage spaghetti for dinner that night. I added oregano and basil and stirred as their flecks floated in the fragrant oil. I baked a cake which my younger son frosted with chocolate and sprinkled with gaily colored disks of sugar.

At breakfast the next morning, I added the bright yellow of bee pollen to fresh blackberries.


Yesterday I pulled a considerable amount of wild morning glories off my front rose bush, and pruned away the dying and leggy branches which bore testimony to a certain benign neglect. I clipped a single rose, a fragrant Maggie, some black-eyed susans and both blue and white lantana. In the house I searched out a blue and white Japanese inspired vase and placed it and the flowers on the library table in the center of my dining room.

Then my younger son and I rolled out pastry crust. I peeled the fresh peaches but it was my son who mixed in the sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg. I made a lattice crust for the top and popped it into the oven.

When it was hot and bubbly, the crust a golden brown, I made tea and we ate the best peach pie I’ve ever had.