Sunday Sixty-Five

I'm not so good at breakfast. Don't get me wrong, I make some pretty good ones (just ask David, Kelly, Kevi and Mike, who've all had my dessert-like puff pancake with yogurt, fresh berries, peaches, bananas, apples with a single scoop of vanilla ice cream), I'm just not so great at taking the time to eat it regularly. That's why I make my own yogurt (Yo-Curt! Citrus Pumpkin is my newest flavor, although I'm pretty good at Honey Maple as well) and have started making breakfast pies, with eggs, bacon, pepper, onions, potatoes and smoked white cheddar cheese, all wrapped in a nice homemade bread dough. After they're done I toss them in the fridge so Ken and I can pop them in the microwave before heading out the door.

This is what I spend the majority of my Sundays doing, in addition to the grocery shopping and laundry. Today was a difficult day to spend inside. The temperatures rose to above 65° and the birds and sunshine were calling to me. As expected, Winnie, Pip and Olive did what cats do best by staking out their respective patches of sunshine in front of the various southern-facing windows. Because the morning was warm, I opened the patio doors and let Duncan lounge outside, where I joined him between various cooking sprees. Rather than listen to Dave Brubeck, I turned on the Magic Feather CD my friend Traci made me for my drive to Idaho last month. It was perfect for lounging around, lazily reading Tom Spanbauer and sipping Egyptian Licorice tea, scratching Duncan behind the ears and watching the chorus of little birds which had assembled to sing and hop from naked branch to naked branch in the tree just off the patio. Duncan was content to sprawl on his side and snore, only occasionally perking up long enough to watch a brown plastic bag he kept mistaking for a squirrel as it fluttered, caught in the bars of the fence.

Duncan, of course, couldn't care less what I was doing. He wanted only to walk or pick up the bits and chunks which accidentally slipped off the counter and fell onto the floor. He could hear the geese flocking up across the street in the park, so after what I'm sure seemed an eternity, we strolled out the front gates and walked down Leawood to the elementary school, where there weren't any geese, but horses, at which he got to stare confoundedly through the fences. The sound of dripping and running snow-melt was everywhere. It trickled and sparkled as it raced alongside us against the curb, pulling once-leaves and Pooh Sticks with it.

But the geese were calling from the park, where they'd gathered to enjoy the sunshine and warmth in the relative safety of the fenced-in baseball field. Duncan stalked along the chain links, his head low, keeping his eye on them as he herded them from the outfield to the infield. Once satisfied with their positioning he hurtled himself against the fence and without raising a bark, propelled the geese straight up into the air where they headed west toward the lake and the mountains.