I pureed some white peaches and added prosecco. Yes, I know all we seem to drink is prosecco. It's because all we drink is prosecco. For now. It's a phase. I took it up to the roof while I watered the farm.
I sat on the parapet wall between us and Raccoon House and looked at the sky, which was beautiful. A late-season, cool air, not-summer sky. Clean blue, high cumulus passing overhead and billowing upwards, buildings painted in precise lines. I over-watered and sloshed my peach puree and prosecco a bit.
Then I took a lot of pictures of the terrace. In the kitchen below, celery soup was cooling, sage was waiting to be frizzled for the ravioli, and in the bedroom my very tired husband was having a nap.
Last night I dreamed I was flying. Me, myself, not in a plane. As long as I believed in it, I could fly. When I stopped believing, I sank. It was like swimming underwater but better.
I am not tired of the terrace. I thought I must be. But I'm not.
There is still plenty to see and do and say.
Later I went and miaowed at the bedroom window and Estorbo came and miaowed with me, quite confused. What are we doeen'? he asked. Miaowing, I said. The tired husband woke up with a jump and soon I had a friend to drink Bellinis on the roof with me.
The naked cat joined us.