Lovely Sunday Morning

I imagine this as the first true cool, crisp fall Sunday morning that has occurred this year. I'm imagining because the waterbed is warm, my toes are warm, I'm blogging, researching mushrooms and recipes from the comfort of bed. I had to interrupt myself just for this quick post. There's a Sunday fall clarity to the light; the wheel has clearly shifted. We'll be setting our clocks back soon, as it was still mostly dark at seven this morning. I've already had my first diet Coke and two slices of homemade banana bread. My lover snores lightly at my right elbow, and Lotus, our aging grand dame Orange Cat, purrs over my shoulder. She purrs as loudly as any three of my other furbabies put together.

My familiar, Dickens, dozes at my elbow between the jostling of the computer and recipe book. I'm inspecting James Vilas' Crazy for Casseroles: 275 All-American Hot Dish Classics. Makes me terribly aware of our limited budget, and my limited exposure to the world. Hence my research of mushrooms. I just learned that those funny mushrooms, revealed in the kicked up leaves of autumn strolls of southern Indiana are morels mushrooms. We used to slice them thin and fry them in butter.

I'm dreaming today. I'm moving all my recipes to a blog so I can search/track them. So far I'm keeping them private because virtually every one is copied from somewhere. I'm not a foodie cook, yet, but I want to be. I dream of what I want my life to be five years from now, when my lover and I can see the Sandy River from our bed, as we wake on cool, crisp fall mornings. I found a marvelous blog post of the Portland Farmer Market. I want to shop regularly there. Lady, hear my prayer, as I manifest our future.

Had to work yesterday morning. For three years I've not answered the phones because the inbound line didn't ring my disk. They fixed it. Grrr...I'm amused by the way I've trained myself out of hearing phones. I answered a few times, but I really don't listen for them anymore. But I digress.

Cameron will wake soon...She's (well, my transgender partner, he) has promised me bacon and eggs. If I linger long enough, I'll have breakfast in bed. Think I'll ask for a cup of hot chocolate...

Kitty Come Home

Dickens never went outdoors as a young cat. Only after I bought my trailor six years ago and moved with too many cats did Dickens begin to escape outdoors.

He once disappeared for more than a month, I was terrified he would not come home. These days he's getting older, about age 10, but he is still very fast, and knows just how to slip out between my ankles.

This weekend he didn't come home. Worried about his well being, Cameron cast her "Kittly, Come Home Spell." She no soooner than carved his name into the candle, and Dickens was home.

Date Night

The weekend is over and it feels like it blew past me before I even had time to enjoy it. Except for one thing, that is. Cameron and I had a date Saturday night!

Cameron took a couple of pictures of me. Meet my familar, Dickens. He's ten years old and was adopted from a shelter in the Atlanta area. I actually adopted his orange and white sister, Starshine, first. But my boyfriend of the time took her over. So I went back after the weekend and brought her littermate home. In his prime, Dickens was the fastest cat in the house. His favorite game was laser tag. A few years ago, Starshine got out of the house. When she came home, she appeared to have injested anti-freeze. We rushed her to the animal hospitol but she did not survive. For about a year and a half Dickens had a terrible personality change. He ceased working as my familiar. He got out frequently. Once he disappeared for six weeks. When he came home injured, the reunion was joyful. He stayed in for several weeks before escaping again. But he no longers wanders far or long. I have come to believe that he was so grief striken by the loss of Starshine that it changed him permenately.

On our date, Cameron and I did one of our favorite things. We went to Copper River, sat on the patio, watched the sunset and flirted under the stars. Some things are to precious for words.