Glorious Sunday morning, the house full of sleeping teenage girls, one of which is in my bed because the air mattress deflated in the middle of the night. Strong PG Tips in my favorite thin-sided porcelain cup, the color of caramel. Dogs, despite a brief escape through the neighbors' garden and up the hill to where the mountain lions live, and me in pajamas and pink clogs running down the road, whistling loudly and encouragingly, are happily chewing sticks on the deck. All is quiet but the sound of the birds and keyboard. September reminds me of weddings back east, of wandering around a Massachusetts red brick college town and eating eggs benedict and strong coffee for brunch, of marriage ceremonies in stark white quaker-style churches, without pane glass or pomp or circumstance.
There is a dent in the third finger of my left hand and like one's tongue with a cavity, my thumb migrates towards it. It feels unfamiliar, naked.
And thus the new journey begins, quietly.
Monica has filled a large vase with red and acid green gladioli and put it on the round table in the hallway, next to the little silver bowls, the palm cross, the Norwegian books. They're hopeful flowers. The English don't like gladioli. Like carnations, they are considered common, but I've never understood why. Flowers have the right to be bright and happily vulgar. What an odd thing, to divide flowers into snooty categories, alongside language and girls' names. I'm sorry, Nancy Mitford, but it seems a particularly bourgeois notion. I shall fill the house with all kinds of flowers in clashing colors and I shall cook again, fiercely, especially pies. We shall see what the Studio City farmers market has in store this morning.
Heirloom LA makes little cornish pasties which they call hand pies. I rather like that term, don't you? Here's a recipe for strawberry hand pies and one for a raspberry tart, both from Heirloom LA of lasagne cupcake fame.
I hope you have a most excellent Sunday.