Sunday dawns gloriously wet, with dripping eaves and wet dogs wishing to share the joy. Rainy mornings need to be celebrated with soft silence and contemplation, though da Budgie disagrees with plaintive little yeeps and buzzes.
And so the week begins afresh, and my Sunday chore is online grocery shopping and planning two evening meals. My southern chicken-fried-steak was not one of my more successful creations, and I think I may redirect my efforts from southern cooking back to post war open a can and dump it in the saucepan cuisine. I just don’t have the chops for cooking.
I’ve been meditating on God’s three directives. Live. Breed. Die. They weren’t given as teachings, but oddly are all gifts, though each one has its own pain. And the pain is another one of those things that takes a whole new passel of pondering. I’d just as soon pass on the pain, thank you.
But the happy barking of dogs about to go outside with Snookums pushes the morbid meditation out of my mind, and the coffee cup needs refilling.