I caught Lucy taking a nap in the hen house yesterday. She was so snug in that little woodchip-lined box that she could barely budge herself when I entered to snatch a few eggs for the brownies I was about to bake. She didn't even have energy enough to look properly guilty. And she hadn't even changed positions when I returned a few minutes later, camera in hand.
I can relate to that feline. I've got a yawn or two of my own lurking at the edges right now. Outside, the rain is dropping fat pellets upon my skylights. Inside, we're warmed by the woodstove and the heat from a crockpot full of beef bones simmering away. Every once in awhile, the lid burbles and tips slightly, sending a thin wisp of beef-scented steam into the air. Before nightfall, that soup stock will be full of carrots and potatoes, bits of leftover roast, barley and herbs. Can't decide yet if I want to make dumplings, or just butter some thick slices of the wheat bread I baked yesterday (from a combination of just-ground hard red and soft white wheat berries). You can't imagine how good that is with butter alone, or maybe a generous drizzle of the honey I picked up from Jay, the Honey Man, out in Granite Falls.
I'm in thick cozy socks. A single candle flickers on the mantel. Tera is reading, Dave is working on his laptop. He and I spent a morning running errands and an afternoon putting up our greenhouse. So now, I want to do nothing but read, or knit. I'd like to write something thought-provoking, but I don't have enough energy left to say much more than this: Tonight, I'm content, and warm, and feeling lazy.
Tonight, I'm Lucy.