Not bacon.


It’s raining. And raining. And gloriously raining. Rain hits my roots like not much else. It trickles down the creases into the crevices of childhood, of nostalgia, of can’t-quite-put-my-finger-on-that. The most steadfast companion of my formative years, rain elicits responses automatic and familiar.

Cold rain finds me building a fire and simmering milk for cocoa. Sure, “cold” is a relative term and as I approach as many years in Texas as away from it (wow, already?) I’ll build a fire when it drops below 60.

Warm rain still catches me off guard. The AC is on, it’s dark out, and raining. Surely it’s chilly outside. But no. It’s tropical. A moist blanket.


Yet still I bake. Or in the case of the pie from the last of the freezer raspberries, my husband does (without a recipe?!)

Somehow baking in the heat of summer feels wasteful, yet the AC on in the rain of spring doesn’t feel the same.