Rain has stopped, but deliciously overcast, cozy shadows within. By now the gumbo has been cooking for one hour and a half, and it’s multilayered flavor scent is wafting through the rain shadowed house, mingling with the creme brulee candle burning in the living room. Did some laundry by hand this morning, something that is always therapeutic to me, and by inspiration, having bought two new lavender pillow slips, washed them in Dr. Teal’s Lavender Body Wash, so cleansing, so gentle that my nails are almost phosphorescent in their whiteness but my skin is not dry. These cases came in a little lavender pouch that I also hand washed, and when it dries, I’m going to fill it with lavender salts and keep it near me when I sleep.

I have not encountered one bad book on this vacation of the ones I have read so far. The library has, “Shattered,” all about Hillary’s meltdown after the election on hold for me. A hard copy of, “The Killer Angels” should be arriving any day now, as I said, it’s my birthday month. I’m just thinking about all the perfect touches some of these writers put into their books that make them a delight even when they’re dark stories, i.e. Elly Griffith’s DCI Harry Nelson. One day he pulls into his designated parking spot at the police station and where the sign by his spot usually reads, “Inspector Nelson,” someone has replaced the Inspector with, “Admiral.” Then, in the last I read, Nelson is at home with his wife and one of his grown daughters, a 24-year-old named Laura. The phone rings, and a sense of urgency comes over Nelson and he responds, “I’ll be right there.” He hangs up to see his daughter bending over him to whisper eagerly in his ear, “what is it, Dad, a murder?” Nelson thinks to himself: Laura has a morbid mind. She should have been a police officer.

Well, broke my fast with a very small bowl of goatmeal. It’s a little after 11 AM and I am starvin’ Marvin.

I love these kinds of days…