Mmmmm. I'm sipping a mocha with a big splash of Kahlua as I tippy tap my thoughts on the keyboard. Mmmmmm. Today's adventure was a solo trip in the rain to Freedom for food for Molly the Cat. She ate the last acceptable can of victuals yesterday morning and the final crumbs of the dried food that she deems edible. Hence it was necessary to take the 90-minute round trip drive over the hill and through the pass today. Although the Husband is feeling better, he still felt spaced out with the virus to ride shotgun. I can't recall the last time I drove by myself a far distance. Definitely years. What can I say? A long time ago, a bicycle repair guy who tuned up our beach cruisers asked us, "Do you do everything together?"  After which he told us that each of our rear wheels had a bent spoke in the same spot. I was in a solitary frame of mind this morning so I didn't feel at all anxious, even when it began to rain and the windshield wipers did more smudging at fi

I made some yumminess for breakfast this morning—cinnamon blueberry biscuits and apple-persimmon compote. Both were made with what was on hand and because I didn't measure precise amounts, we shall not ever taste this exact delightfulness again. The biscuits were made by crumbling three tablespoons butter in three big spoonfuls of unbleached white flour, a good enough shake from the baking powder tin, and a nice dose of cinnamon. To that, I added honey yogurt (almost two weeks beyond the purchase date) and probably half-a-cup of dried blueberries. I squirted icy water from the dispenser on the fridge door to get the dough to combine, which yielded seven big drop biscuits. They baked for about 15 minutes at 400 degrees. The compote may not really be a compote because I didn't make it with some kind of syrup. If I wanted to make a pie, which I might, the concoction would be a delicious filling. Five small somewhat shriveled apples and six small slightly mushy persimmons got

This first day of 2018, I'm taking Molly the Cat's cue and making like it's a holiday. Of course every day is a holiday for Molly. "Hey!" says Molly. Purrrrrrrrrrrr.  Okay, Molly. Being retired, every day is essentially a holiday. For that matter, every day is the start of a new year. Hmmmm. "There you go," says Molly. Purrrrrrrrrrr.  

The Husband is down with a virus so it was not a good rest for us last night. Cough, cough. Toss, turn. You know the drill. He'll be fine, we think positively. Leftover garlicky ginger chicken soup was turned into a pot of garlicky ginger tomato soup this morning, which shall be good for a couple of days before he tires of that kind of soup. He's already on his way to losing weight for the 20-pound loss goal we each set on Christmas day (our present to ourselves) by the end of May. So. Here we are, the end of the year. An outrageous year for our nation, leaderless. Executive actions and congressional duplicity turning us down the path of darkness rather than so-called greatness. I want to think that we've reached the bottom and it's only up now. A lot of us have no problem standing up against harassment, intimidation, lies, misconceptions, ignorance, and down-right bullying. The personal score: A hysterectomy took away the cancer no one was really sure was there. T

Molly the Cat rubs her face from front cover to back cover of Under a Tuscan Sun , by Frances Mayes, rather than just one edge of the book. That's how much she is enjoys Mayes' memoir, too.  I'm taking my time with it, savoring a section or two with breakfast. I may have mentioned this before: Mayes has been inspiring me to turn the Mama's house into our home. Since the Mama's spirit soared into the universe last year, I have been reading a lot. The last time I lost myself in the virtual reality of novels, memoirs, and nonfiction was during my school daze. I read so much back then, the Mama would sometimes say to me, "You read too much. You're going to hurt yourself. Go outside." Today I've got it somewhat balanced. I read and I go outside. Sometimes, I read outside.