The dogs flow like a river through my legs and out the door into the darkness of the back yard.
driven by the discipline of routine and the promise of a bite to eat upon their return. Later, pressing at the back door, the three will pile up like furry pillows with tails, warming one another until I’ve discovered my morning coffee, been dressed and gotten ready to open the door, then they’ll disperse like shadows into the house, landing with soft thumps on the couch, in the chair and with the click of too long nails, onto the cool tiles of the front doorway.
In our world, time is measured not by hours, nor minutes, but by the digital read on a microwave oven and the car purring in the drive.
Then for me, it’s away, to where small miracles appear and flash by; tender grilled lamb glistens with garlic and chive in a sliver of butter spiked with balsamic, a slab of quivering salmon a day removed from the river, filleted that morning, broiled with a touch of hard wood, brushed with butter and a twist of three peppercorns, sparkles with a final squeeze of lemon; morel mushrooms and spring asparagus just cooked, garlicky and buttery, sensuous, surround a good cut of beefsteak, the juices running together like song.
Cooking is tactile, smoke and dim lighting diffuse the sight but other senses sharpen; the buzz of the crowd bespeaks the pace of service, aromas emanating from the oven foretells that bread is in need of turn or the bacon is done; steam and fire, time and again, the feel of the knife in palm, sounds of the wheels turning, moments pass in boisterous progression and somewhere there is music.
Enjoy the day, hug the ones you love,