The fynbos flowers are Leucaspermum, bought from a flower seller on Lenox Avenue, as if straight off Table Mountain. The book beneath is Don't Die in the Bundu, a handbook on survival when stranded in the wilderness. I need another string of lights for this window. On today's list.
Where did the Fuchsia magellanica cuttings come from? I have no idea what you are talking about.
Good Harlem morning to you. Or does it look like evening?
Jet lag woke me and by 6am I was shaping today's sourdough boule, at an hour appropriate for a baker. The starter survived two weeks without feeding and last night was bubbling happily to itself.
The quiet Constantia nights have given way to the middle-of-the-night thumps and bumps of this house, but being back in our most comfortable of beds is still reassuring. A new upright floor heater (we will not use the electric wall heaters at all this winter, to avoid those $500 bills) looks accusingly at me from a corner, convincing the corner of my eye that it is the cat, wondering belligerently where his next meal is. The three-sided conversations that our strange little family used to enjoy have become stilted duets, with awkward silences and spaces for tears.
There are things to do, lights to be strung, lilies to be packed and stored, stories to be written, photos to be downloaded, lists to be made, menus to be conjured, pictures to frame, walnuts to toast, and direction to be found.
The smell of baking bread will help, the living thing in this long, high house.