Listening to:  Burning House by Cam

Currently reading: Freedom by Jonathan Franzen, River of Doubt by Candace Millard

Sunday morning breakfast.  As I carry out my existence in the Hobbit House.  Happily tucking in to my little corner of this busy activity filled space, I have carved out my own Sunday tradition.

My morning breakfast.

I set up shop first. Usually I walk into a kitchen filled with dishes. A full sink, dirty counters, stuffed trash cans.  Signs of great meals, long evening conversations, and community.  Remnants of the good times before.  Wine glasses, and open bags of chips and candy bars, signs of late night nibblers.

I get to work. Trash disposed of and a quick walk in the sunshine.  Greet the turkey or deer  wandering around having their own breakfasts.

Head back inside, water on. Soap squeezed. Bubbles forming. Steam.  Turning chaos into order once again.  Filling dishwasher, scrubbing pans, cleaning countertops.  A clean start and a symbolic freshness to the day.

Pull out the flour, sugar, milk, eggs. Hot skillet and butter. Mixing and getting to work.

And everyone wakes up and wanders in. Coffee gets made, kids come in, one might stay and talk about the wonder of God and science.  The sis in law, dressed in pirate garb,  talks about her plans for the day. Brother in law, wanders down stairs, tired and sniffly. Grabs his pancakes and wanders out.  Mom in law wanders around with shopping list in hand, discussing what to make for tonight’s meal.

Step father in law comes downstairs asking if there are any pancakes left, and find several right there waiting for him.

The new barstools are tested.  Diets attempted, and only two pancakes are grabbed. However, the lure of cinnamon and nutmeg is too strong and a third and fourth are quickly grabbed.

Leftovers are bagged, only 2 small pancakes left. Guaranteed not to last the day.

Happy Sunday :).