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.
plumdirt 