I'm eating homemade apple sauce (they call it compote here, but it's apple sauce) and greek yogurt with honey. It's delicious. I keep licking the spoon. I'm alone at my kitchen table. The apples are from my tree. I have three apple trees, maybe four. There are so many apples that they are rotting on the lawn. The dog collect them, play with them, throw them to each other, leave them under my bed. Last night I made roast pork with crackling and apple sauce and mashed sweet and roast potatoes in goose fat. There are white flowers on my table. It's so cold that I've put a big old Hudson Bay blanket from LL Bean on my bed. It's a week of first. I'm going autumn hunting (cubbing) on Thursday for the first time, and on Sunday I'm doing a sponsored ride - cross country over thirty fences. My finger is broken but I don't care. This is what life is meant to be. A big fat, slightly scary adventure. And I think, broken finger crossed, that my son is coming for Christmas. I hardly know how to contain my whoops.
Here's to my brave little mare, who makes my life so much better.
Here's to my amazing friends who have sponsored me (bit overwhelmed by the kindness).
And here's to everything kinda, sorta, working out in the end.
I feel blessed.
PS. Hillary Clinton's book is a MUST READ.