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.
A little sandwich bread for the week thanks to my 40ish year old Joy of Cooking.
A pan of frozen tomatoes from the garden abundance of 2012 willing their way into spaghetti sauce (with DH’s deft assistance.)
This year’s winter garden is crawling along the cloudy days. Cabbage and chard, broccoli and kale, garlic and onions, and some pea and lettuce sprouts crossing their leaves for the harder freezes being over for the season.
I don’t think I would’ve managed a winter garden this year without DH. He hauled the manure and turned it in. He gathered (*cough* nicked from the curb *cough*) leaves for insulating (and feeding) mulch. He’s kept a mind on the watering and an eye on the forecast. He’s been truly wonderful (per usual, honestly.)
Why all of the extra help? The ankle is still healing and physical therapy is progressing, but these days, more than that, is all of the energy I’ve been allocating to growing something else 😉