Tuesday, November 7

I wanted to write about Sunday, but that isn't turning out well.

James hums the Dies Irae he used to sing in school.
It really isn't so bad when you get used to it; Medieval Latin.
Pumpkin bread that brings the flat together in a fit of affinity for cream cheese icing.
My parents who are awesome for sending me cans of pumpkin.
Lunch at the house of an Irish family.
The Donegal accent.
Leeks and mashed potatoes are starting to seem normal.
White wine in a bottle on a lace tablecloth.
A conservatory.
Everyone in civil Sunday clothes.
Trains home in the dark.
Watching children on the train.
Listening to conversations about facts, and being sleepy.
The kindness of strangers.
The kindness of perfect hosts.
The comfort of coming home, and the necessity of using a key.
The symbolism of using a key for home.
There being only a few chairs in our kitchen at home, I sit on the floor in front of the oven, where it is warm, and watch the bread rise and bake.
The warmth of the spot near the oven.
Looking up at people who come by, people who are happy to see other people enjoying themselves.
Am beginning to get a reputation for cooking, now.
Feeling a little more like home when I am able to do things for other people like baking.
Cleaning up the kitchen is a ritual of special import.
The way that people in my flat actually do care, and don't mind doing their part, and the way we haven't had to label much.
Which reminds me, I owe one of my friends (the same of which I am constantly borrowing, which is embarrassing) for two things of cream cheese and a half-carton of eggs. In money, that is. I owe a good deal more than that to my friends, especially after my THNGVB day yesterday. I hope I was not rude.

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