Your Daily Miracle: Cappuccino (with a little jot of ameretto)
Five minutes to write.
I just drank the smoothest, loveliest cappuccino at a friend's house, procured from an Italian cappuccino maker, so special that the maker would not sell it to them until they had visited half a dozen times. Well, it was well worth it. Bella cappuccino!
Down in the wee valley that slopes from our house I see woodsmoke puffing through dark wine maple leaves. Clouds obscure all but the dim blue foothills of the mountains, and the pines rise tall and square-shouldered before them. Birds. How I love birds in the autumn and winter, the way they map the sky with millions of flight paths, flashing black, blue, brown against ever-baring branches.
Soon a gaggle of girls will fill the red house with sound and activity, and spaghetti sauce will warm on the stove top and bread will bronze under the broiler and the TV will compete with music and conversation and general chaos.
But for now. . .oh, there's Merry home.
Happy Friday, all, and my your happy hour be long and sweet!
I just drank the smoothest, loveliest cappuccino at a friend's house, procured from an Italian cappuccino maker, so special that the maker would not sell it to them until they had visited half a dozen times. Well, it was well worth it. Bella cappuccino!
Down in the wee valley that slopes from our house I see woodsmoke puffing through dark wine maple leaves. Clouds obscure all but the dim blue foothills of the mountains, and the pines rise tall and square-shouldered before them. Birds. How I love birds in the autumn and winter, the way they map the sky with millions of flight paths, flashing black, blue, brown against ever-baring branches.
Soon a gaggle of girls will fill the red house with sound and activity, and spaghetti sauce will warm on the stove top and bread will bronze under the broiler and the TV will compete with music and conversation and general chaos.
But for now. . .oh, there's Merry home.
Happy Friday, all, and my your happy hour be long and sweet!
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