Ten o'clock in the morning and the kitchen smells of cloves and cookies.
The Evil Dr. Go and little monstre of the morning in bright red pajama pants spotted with theodore bears, up to our elbows in softened butter and quaker oats.
Mr. Pyke wandering down at some point halfway through our machinations, stealing two cups of our imported-by-Maria-from-Paris jasmine tea and shaking his head at us all the way back up the stairs.
We're loonies. The chemist and I, on our tippiest toes, reaching for the heavy green mortar and pestle to crush the cloves with.
Cinammon and clove oatmeal raisin cookies. The recipe's a little heavy on the sugar, but my fingers still taste of spice. I'll be posting it to the recipe mailing list with appropriate warnings.
Two more of my basil sproutlings grew basil-shaped leaves today, the philodendron spit up three new little spikes, and even the coriander is vying for space by the window.
Sydney is the best little kitchen helper you could ever ask from a bundle of yellow feathers.
What a beautiful morning. Ten o'clock and all's well, too early to call the girls and be dragged out for that shopping spree, a houseguest in the shower, a gangly stork of a man in his white bathroom storming away at his keyboard, and that scent, cloves battling with cinammon, in my nostrils, in my hair, in my skin, everywhere.