Smells like home

31 Oct

We moved in to our house last week.  Thanks go to everyone who shared thoughts about the houses we viewed — we are in ‘Cul-de-sac‘ and I couldn’t be more pleased.  My very first task, on our very first morning, after singing the birds out of the trees and getting the dancing mice to sweep up, was to make some breakfast.

A strong cup of milky coffee got me started.  (There’s no other way to meet the dawn.)

These are English rashers.  You ask for ‘bacon’, you get this.  Come to me, my lovelies.

A quiet word to the English: here is an easy, unfancy way to scramble eggs:

Crack them, stir them, cook them, eat them.  It’s not hard.  Really.  And it tastes just fine.  So if, say, a five year old American girl asks for scrambled eggs with her restaurant breakfast, maybe it would be okay to scramble one up instead of insisting she can only have fried eggs?  Maybe?  Pretty please?

To me there’s just something wonderful about standing in my own kitchen, cookware arranged in front of me, spatula at the ready, ingredients lined up and ready for action.  Then the slicing, stirring, frying, baking … the warm smells of butter, sugar, coffee, bacon … and sitting down in our own space to enjoy a meal together.  Ahh.

Once a house starts to smell like home, it starts to feel like home — don’t you agree?  We can start unpacking some of that tightness of being always a guest somewhere.  We can let down our hair, have friends over, wear pajamas in the living room, fill the refrigerator(s) with snacks, dance to loud music, be silly in the yard, throw toys down the stairs (I don’t encourage this, but … it is fun), clean our own sinks, and start to put small tokens in happy corners to encourage ourselves to settle in, settle down, and breathe deep.

Starting tomorrow I’ll be posting every day as part of  NaBloPoMo.  Wish me luck — see you tomorrow!

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