Sunday Morning Breakfast

With the fire roaring, breakfast was on the table in no time. Food cooks fast on a hot stove. There is no turning away from your chore when the fire is blazing. Nothing but cast iron pans will do.
There was oatmeal bubbling away in the small iron pot, so old and well seasoned from many decades of cooking. Potatoes frying in the pan and eggs and sausage gently cooking in yet another fry pan. Chai tea warming in the back. The table set. A plate filled full for my hungry husband. There is wood to be hauled in and he needs his fuel.
The lantern lit and set close to the plates, to chase away the dreariness that come with heavy rain clouds. A perfect morning for curling up on the sofa with a good book...now to decide which book to read. Maybe today I will pull out my old well worn leather bound copy of "The Path to Home" by Edgar Guest. His poems always make me feel good. They are the kind of poems that make you sigh a good kind of sigh. One of agreement and one of "if only everyone felt this way". Yes, that is what I will read today.

weather: 40 and rain
music: Rocky Mountain Hymns