Inside voices

Again, we woke up to the rolling-suitcase sound yesterday. It proceeded to rain straight from morning until midnight; not a single respite long enough to step outside and twirl in the fresh air. Inside voices all day, for us.

So, I cooked. I stood in that kitchen and made oodles of apple-cinnamon rolls, mashed sweet potatoes, fajitas, maple-cranberry salad.


As my only subject for photography was food, I spent the other half of the day looking at food blogs trying to imagine how that shot was taken. My blog studying comes down to this: light. And, when it rains in Scotland, there is no light. So, my food stylist days are starting out with quite the whimper. I dream of shooting a bowl of eggs on a white, weathered picnic table in a lavender field in France. Quiet light. Slow breeze. A chicken will wander through.  It will be magnifique! Meanwhile, my heavy rolls and purees bubble away here, and yet another pan of apple cider warms.


Gardeners, I’m told, are driven by the magic of something being there that wasn’t before; they put love in, and one day, something appears. And it is alive, and continues apart from them, resilient. That is why I cook. You mix things together and slowly, they start to move. And then the movement quickens, and something delicious is there and it is oh. so. good.


Sometimes I get overwhelmed with excitement, and it bursts out. I’ve been told to use my indoor voice many times. Well, enough of that. Today we are a-celebratin'!

For the past half year, my wonderful husband has devoted every spare minute to creating a website for the St Andrews Radio Station. It launches today! A year ago, he knew next to nothing about web design, and completely taught himself. Congratulations on a job impressively done, sweetheart!

And, in about five hours, one of my best friends from college will walk down the aisle, adoring, and being adored. That’s all that matters. I’m not thinking about the fact that I will not be there to cry in person about how amazing life turns out, and how happy I am for them.

This has all got me thinking about celebrating, about a moment we set aside to notice the past and the future, and say, Look at how much has happened, look where we’re goin’, baby! I love moments of analysis like this, times when you look at something you made and say, Did I do that? Times when you look at a degree and say, How did that happen? Times when you are holding onto someone, and belong to them forever and know you didn’t do a thing to deserve this.


A year ago, I was away from Walk. I counted day upon day until I could see him. Today I celebrate being close enough to touch the man I love.

And today I celebrate the return of poetry to my life. I’ve re-read some drafts I wrote last year, scavenged poetry news and tried to get up-to date . . . and I do believe the poems are coming soon. I feel it.

I’ve recently realized there is not enough celebrating with friends so we're gearing up to celebrate autumn this weekend. Old friends, apple-themed party, British accents. Bring it on!

And last night, after looking at pictures of galettes and cassoulets and beignets all day, for dinner I made plain jane chicken soup. I slurped a spoonful before I put my bowl down. Local vegetables and homemade broth, you are good. We celebrate you, too.


I celebrate waking up to sun, the weekend, and you. And you?