May 25
Sunday. We're not churchgoers, Sarah and I, so instead we sleep in, take care of the animals (who complain once again), and sit down for a leisurely brunch. I make French toast from the bread Sarah made the other day, soaking it in beaten eggs from our chickens, a touch of vanilla, and a sprinkle of cinnamon. Sarah puts out orange juice, some of last year's home-made strawberry jam instead of syrup, and sliced bananas and walnuts to go on top.
Outside, the sun brings the temperature to the seventies before we're done. A light breeze blows, and the chickens and goats search for food among the new life of spring. I work on patching the irrigation hoses, some of which inevitably crack each winter as the water inside them freezes. No matter how well I think I've drained them, every year when I turn them on for the first time, I find gushers in unexpected places.
Sarah laughs at me as I get a faceful of water.
"What?" I ask her, crankily.
"You're silly," she says.
I smile. How can I do anything else?
Outside, the sun brings the temperature to the seventies before we're done. A light breeze blows, and the chickens and goats search for food among the new life of spring. I work on patching the irrigation hoses, some of which inevitably crack each winter as the water inside them freezes. No matter how well I think I've drained them, every year when I turn them on for the first time, I find gushers in unexpected places.
Sarah laughs at me as I get a faceful of water.
"What?" I ask her, crankily.
"You're silly," she says.
I smile. How can I do anything else?
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