Sunday

An unusual day in that it follows no routines, no predictable patterns.

I take that back. At 5, Isis is meowing for food and release and I hear the rooster crowing. It's drizzly wet outside, so going out is hurried. I pause only to photograph the ripening strawberries. Here they are, moments before a chipmunk comes and eats the whole lot of red ones.





The netting we have thrown over the berries does not deter chipmunks. What's the next strategy to get a crop out of our strawberry field? Still workin' on it.

Put aside the strawberries for now. Face the farmhouse. Appreciate the varous clumps of peonies coming into their own.






Thinking back, it was a restless night for me -- too many small details to think through and work out. But though the wedding is in some fashion beginning to occupy so many of my waking hours, I have to say that it is by my choice. After all, I am not cooking anything that weekend. The young couple has hired the Underground Food Collective to cater a simple Midwestern meal. All details surrounding food and drink and, too, the ceremony itself, have been taken care of by the soon to be marrieds. I merely provide the venue.

But there is a huge amount of *venue* out there!

This morning, we gathered on the porch for breakfast. Frittata with this week's eggs, then too, pancakes with our own rhubarb compote, and home made granola.


'


Oh, but I love having my daughters  here! Including this one who has to head back to Minneapolis this afternoon.





And shortly after the meal, the skies cleared and as the couple went over the various staging details with those who will be running the show on that day (less than two weeks now!), I sat back and thought more about all that was still before us.

When they left, the faremtte became eerily quiet. No voices, no sounds, no questions thrown out, no answers scribbled, recorded, forgotten.

Ed and I finish chipping the raspberries and I sit down to make my final final list and then I put it all aside and concentrated on eating a chocolate fudgsicle, defiantly avoiding the plunge back into outdoor work. For a while.

And then we plunge again. We weed according to the new guidelines (the young couple's input has caused us to reconfigure some of the paths and passageways) until we can weed and plunge no more. (Even the chickens are exhausted with our efforts.)






I wince at their clawing and scratching, but Ed reminded me that the beds look fine and we will survive their antics! We will!





Supper? Well, it's probably the worst meal that I ever "cooked" for Ed and myself: reheated egg fritata and reheated last night's pizza. Yum.