Weekend mornings are quiet. Particularly Sundays. It's the last twenty-four before the return to work and only a small break in a week where every second counts. But it's not filled with To-Do's and errands, or with hanging out and chores. Those are all left up to Saturday. Sunday gets the things I should make time for. The list of things I love to do, but don't do on a day-to-day basis.
But most of all, it's the early morning where I'm still in bed, wishing to drift to my dreams. Instead, I listen to the quiet murmur of a television in the next room, and the groaning of the dog as he moves to get up. In the quiet of the bedroom hall, I can hear his collar jingle about his neck as he stretches, yawns, scratches, and whines. His loud waking ritual signals he needs to go outside; and then get his breakfast the instant he returns. I know if I pretend to sleep, he won't wake me. He'll rouse whose bed he slept in. Upstairs he'll venture in the yard before returning for his breakfast reward. Thanking whomever fed him, with a burp to the face.
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Precipitation is a consistent thing. Seattle is known for it's wet weather. Or perhaps the serial killers this climate produces... But I've never found it depressing. Growing up in the rain doesn't make me hate it and yearn for sunlight and bright days. I've found comfort in this weather and in damp area the Northwest provides.
The ending to a perfect day, should always be a rainy night. Between sunrise and sunset, it could be clear and sunny; warm with a slight breeze; neighbors doing some yard work while they have the chance. But nightfall should bring the rain. It gives you a reason to stay indoors; to bundle in a blanket; to curl up in bed; to read a book; to watch a movie; to cuddle with a pet. In the back of your mind, you're thankful you're not outside; it makes you thankful for what you have, even if you don't realise. In the middle of the night, hearing the rain tap on the skylight window of the bathroom, I'm happy to get back to my comforter and burrow in it's warmth because I know I'm just missing a dreary night that's had no change.
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A lack of ingredients always leads to creativity. Or perhaps it's better translated to hope - that you'll find what you need, even if you know you don't have it in the pantry. Cooking is a big hobby. There are good lessons to be learned when cooking. Further, there's always something about experimenting that makes my heart pound. It's that feeling of success when an idea works exactly how I anticipated. The happiness that random ingredients can create something delicious. Of course, happiness doesn't always occur in the kitchen.
Whether it's marring fingertips or forgetfulness, I almost always realise within five minutes of a food experiment that it's going to go awry. Perhaps it's the countless times I've had something go horribly wrong and end up losing ingredients. It's all those tries that end up in the compost bin. Either because I lacked items, or my own wandering mind, when tasting comes around, something has gone wrong.
But it's all the failures that you really do learn from. Yeah, it's cliche. People always say you learn from your mistakes, but who actually admits they do? All the realisation of missing items, can lead to something new and marvelous. And perhaps it's that same lesson that can be translated to writing and make something out of nothing.
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