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Sunday.

It has taken me half the day to sit down and write.

I’ve made eggs, cardamom coffee cake, rinsed and re-soaked chickpeas, and started bread.  I’ve put laundry in the dryer, made a grocery list, and vacuumed up the cemeteries of flies that have been accumulating along the windowsills in my bedroom.

Before that, though, I woke up to the first morning light and snuggled into my love’s warm body.  When Edge got up, I laid in bed and read my book, Small Wonder by Barbara Kingsolver, and just as I began the last essay, Edge walked in with a fresh pot of chai for us to share.  While I finished my book and Edge began reading Home Cheese Making, we sipped the creamy spiced tea that marks the beginning of each of our days.

Now I find myself in the same feeling of comfort and calm that I began the day in.  Outside the air is still and the snow is piled heavier from last night’s storm.  Inside the house is warm from the woodstove and all our baking.  Snow slides off our roof as Edge makes granola and cooks the chickpeas for hummus, Jeff plays guitar, yogurt sets wrapped in a towel by the stove, and I sit upstairs by my bedroom window breathing in the sweet smells of maple and cinnamon that fill the house.

My mind is clear but for the immediate senses of the moment: hunger rising in my belly, the twang of Ralph Stanley now playing on the speakers, and the slight brush of air on my neck from the ceiling fan.

On a simple day like this I understand what Barbara Kingsolver means when she writes, “Maybe life doesn’t get any better than this, or any worse, and what we get is just what we’re willing to find: small wonders, where they grow.”  I am thankful for the wonders of bread rising, the creaminess of raw milk, the taste of cardamom, the plucking notes of the guitar found easily by my brother’s fingers, and the smile that arises in my whole being when my eyes meet Edge’s as we work together in the kitchen, moving always with the intention to live simply and eat deliciously.