there was a time in my life when i used to kiss d goodbye,

retreat to the half lemon yellow, half faded lime green kitchen

and bake chocolate chip oatmeal cookies

(from the secret recipe that my high schoolmate’s mom had passed on to me).

these were to be my breakfast

right out of the oven

with the chips still ooey & gooey & warm

contrasting nicely with cold milk drunk from a tall, iced glass

put in the freezer the night before

when this breakfast was already on my mind.

i moved on to living overseas in the often damp, but lovely climate of ireland.

there i started my days by eating cereal bowls full of hot rice

liberally laced with salt, pepper and fresh melted butter

while a cozy water bottle set under my feet

to shoo away the bone deep chill

because my peat burning skills were not up to the task of keeping my flat warm

all night long.

this morning my youngest and i started out by

making bread in the bread machine.

at three and a half, she does so love to help

and is horribly fascinated by the least kid friendly ingredient

– the eggs.

so i’m trying to guard the dozen

while i figure out just how to explain in 3 year old terms

what ‘being really gentle’ means.

as i hear these next words coming

out of my mouth

i laugh

at myself,

because i seem to be in an alternate universe to the place that i used to live.

where else, but in a house filled with the pitter patter of little feet,

would this explanation make any sense at all?

‘please be gentle, baby girl.  hold it like you’re holding a live little bug.’

my life is a riot.

at least for a minute or 2 everyday.

‘breakfast’ taken from 21:12 of john.