Last Thursday, the day starts off ordinary. A quotidian routine. Morning toast and tea. With whole milk. No sugar anymore; gave it up one Lent; never looked back, except for the occasional indulgence. It's so addictive to slide back into, but I don't miss that sweetness, not really. Shockingly sweet if sugar added. The bread is local, artisanal. Heidelberg Baking Company. Herkimer, New York. This morning, white. Excellent for toasting. But first the sliced pieces need delicate separating. Had we frozen this loaf? So, sliced is not quite sliced until my hands surgically finish the existential act. It is a careful operation. Attentive. Or else the pieces will crumble into untoastable morsels. But the division is complete and the toaster accepts this sacrifice. Breakfast is a quiet feast.
Lunch is a pleasant indulgence with a dear friend.
Supper at India House with wife, younger daughter, son, his wife.
Gifts, mostly books.
Wrapping paper.
Such was my 60th birthday.
Gratitude.
Found in the breaking of the bread.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
-
We know society exhibits moral outrage over serial killings, as well it should. But why the widespread apathy over the death throes of the s... -
Today has been a banner day: solid work prospects and a Washington Post Style Invitational three-peat : Report From Week 749 in which we ask...
-
It's not year's end, but we're nearly halfway there. Here's my running list of books read so far this year, in the order of ...
2 comments:
Paulie:
That last line came as quite a surprise -- shock, even, as Snagglepuss might say. From my in-person encounters with you, I would think that surely that number is a typo.
(And I can hear you saying that Shirley doesn't make typos....)
Many happy (though belated) returns.
mark
Marcus Aurelius, friend,
Thanks indeed. Thursday evening, when my neighbor, an attractive young woman, beamed that I didn't seem anywhere near that age, it made me wag my dawggy tail, a fitting coda to a great day.
pk
Post a Comment