Apropos of nothing, really, but sort of stream-of-consciousness (but in my scattery mind, it’s usually a whizbang mishmash of ten thousand thoughts, whirling past those second-base-synapses napping on post and too late to capture).
I haven’t been posting much, for after all the froofraw of the kitchen clutter and mutter and chaos, after the shining-white and pink were finally established in all their crisp glory, and the last pink spatula parked upright in the old crockery pitcher, an electrical problem came to light, as it were, so we’ve had to have that worked on (appointments for estimates, appointments for measuring, appointments for the doing of the job, plus an appointment with the two kind young men who come and TAKE DOWN said cabinets so the wire-guy can do his work, and then three consecutive cancelled appointments to actually DO the wiring, with cabinets and contents scattered about on tables and floors for three weeks)---after all THAT, with time for five of our Lovies to arrive for Thanksgiving week, we finally got the original putter-upper guys to re-attach cabinets and we’ll start again after Christmas.
I swear, there’s been enough WHINE around here to overflow the Loire region and Napa, all at once. When that thought hit me this morning, I thought immediately of DEAR Tom T. Hall and his watermelon wine, and felt better.
If you’ve never heard him sing, please DO. Takes me back, takes me Out Of, and fills my heart