I have a gin and tonic with two drops of bitters in it, sitting on a small silver butter plate acting as a coaster, given to me long ago by the Friedmans. My delicious pig from last night, frozen in late-night domestic haste when I cleaned up after the little Cinco de Mayo dinner party, is bubbling away happily on the stove, waiting to be dinner with some sour cream. The cat is healthy. The boxwoods on the terrace, with their new spring-green coats, are flourishing, and feel good when ruffled, like friendly animals. I have a gorgeous husband. I have put in a day's work fuller than any I can remember, more apt to capsize than most, so that I am still bobbing safely on top of the water, not sinking beneath. Promises made have been kept. My freezer is full of liquor (!) making me feel prosperous and ready to receive anyone, at any time. So are my decanters on the tin drinks' tray. All my glasses have been washed and are sparkly. The poisonous jessamine is blooming thickly yellow and smells good but will be sent to its doom this weekend and a replacement, more friendly to bees, found.
And late this afternoon I received an email from a lovely client, reading:
"Miraculously, the grape is blooming by the way." Just last week I took a picture of them on the old, neglected vine, before she'd noticed. It seemed a sort of message: everything is going to be alright.
Touch wood.
!!! [coughing] :-)
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