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On Grief and Grieving March 2026
- kresicki
- Feb 28
- 93 min read
Updated: Mar 20
March 1, 2026
Walking Down the Hill
This morning started later than I ever would’ve expected. It was 9:56 AM when I finally got out of bed , and truthfully, I probably would’ve slept longer if my phone hadn’t rung around 9:15. Even then, my first instinct was to roll over and drift off again until reality set in and I realized the time.
When I finally made my way into the kitchen, I moved with more caution than usual. That familiar instability was there again, not exactly dizziness, but enough that I found myself leaning on walls and furniture, taking no chances. It’s becoming more obvious that the last thing I need is a fall.
With my first cup of coffee poured, I sat at the dining room table and looked out through the patio doors searching for the sun. The cloud cover was fairly thick, but not quite thick enough to fully hide it, I could still make out the shape of the sun behind the gray. It was 31° outside with a “feels like” of 19°, and a high expected around 40°. Not exactly warm, but I’ll take it. It beats below freezing.
Sitting there with coffee in hand, I couldn’t help thinking about everything I’ve pushed through the past couple of weeks, and the truth is, getting older is a whole different kind of difficult. It feels like my body has been giving and giving through life, and then one day it decides it’s done giving at the same rate. More and more frequently, it’s telling me to slow down.
Yesterday’s work in the garage brought that home in a big way. I set up a heavy work table I built years ago, a solid, stable table made from dimensional lumber and ¾-inch plywood (3 feet wide by 8 feet in length). In the past, I could wheel it around and flip it into position without much thought. I even carried it upstairs into the dining room for holiday gatherings when the house was full. Now? Just moving it a few feet, extending the legs, and flipping it over felt like a test, nearly impossible compared to how it used to be. It’s surreal… your body keeps giving, until suddenly it starts taking it back.
Even so, I tried to focus on what needed to get done today: finishing laundry, getting another load going, and dealing with the laminated dough in the refrigerator, rolling it out, shaping pastries, portioning them, freezing them, and bagging them for future use. If there was anything left after that, I knew I’d have to think about what to make for lunch tomorrow when Bob and Josh come back to continue working on Josh’s senior project.
As the morning went on, the room suddenly brightened, the sun finally pushed through completely, and for a moment that shift in light felt like a small hand on my shoulder (Fran no doubt), nudging me forward.
I only wish that Fran were here to enjoy these with me...
By late morning (around 11 AM), I pulled the remaining laminated dough from the refrigerator and turned it into ten more bear claws. I baked off eight of them and froze two, just to determine if they can be bagged individually and baked whenever needed, at a future date. The ones that came out of the oven continued to look amazing, the kind of result that makes all the effort worth it. I was anxious to try one, but I knew I needed to eat something with a little substance first.
Somewhere in between pastries, I managed to knock out a couple loads of laundry and make a trip to the market for essentials I was out of.
But the day wasn’t all baking and productivity. In the background, I stayed irritated, and honestly troubled, about the whole HP Instant Ink mess. After the fiasco last week, I had canceled my subscription only to have my printer held hostage. HP basically forced me to re-enroll just to keep using the cartridges that were still in the printer and still mostly full. I hated that, but paying five dollars a month until I used them up felt better than paying a small fortune for brand new cartridges.
During that phone call, I told the HP representative very clearly, emphatically, not to send me any more cartridges. Mine were ¾ full. I didn’t need them. Do not send them.
Yet yesterday, another package showed up anyway.
I was furious when it arrived, and even more furious when I opened the box and found ink leaked everywhere: inside the packaging, over the cartridges, over the instructions. The more I looked at the cartridges, the more it felt like they weren’t even new. They looked recycled or refilled, no individual packaging, no proper presentation like the cartridges I’ve purchased elsewhere. HP will warn you they’ll void warranties if you don’t use original cartridges… but then they send “original” cartridges that arrive damaged, leaking and looking like a an abomination. It feels like a ridiculous scheme, and I fully intend to call them again tomorrow to try to straighten it out.
Later, I spoke briefly with my daughter after I got home from the market. She started talking about inviting me over for dinner tomorrow, but I told her tomorrow wasn’t an option, Bob and Josh will be here, and even if dinner was later in the day, I’d likely be too tired to make it over. I also reminded her she still has chocolate-covered strawberries here that she said she was going to pick up but never did. I joked that if she didn’t come get them, I’d give them away, and she said that would be fine.
It reminded me of something that has happened far too many times: I’ll make food for someone, and all they have to do is pick it up, sometimes it’s even still warm, and it doesn’t happen. Food stored and reheated is still edible, sure, but it’s never as good as the day it’s made.
Now, as I sit here at 7:19 PM, I’m finally catching my breath and looking back over everything. It was a day of getting things done, pastries, laundry, groceries, but also a day of wrestling with the realities of aging, the frustration of feeling cornered by a company that doesn’t listen, and the small sting of effort that doesn’t always get met with the same urgency on the other end.
Tomorrow, Bob and Josh will be back. I still need to decide what to make for lunch. I’m leaning toward Italian sausage with peppers and onions, hoagies, but depending on how much energy I can muster, it might be soup and sandwiches instead. Either way, they’ll be fed, and we’ll keep moving the project forward.
As evening settles in, I’m reminded that not every day needs to be conquered. Some days are simply about steady steps, about getting through what needs to be done, adjusting expectations, and accepting that strength looks different than it once did.
The sun that struggled behind the morning clouds eventually found its way through. It didn’t rush. It didn’t force its way. It just waited for the moment when the light could return.
Maybe that’s the lesson in all of this.
Walk instead of run. Pace instead of push. Feed the people who show up. Let go of what doesn’t.
There’s still warmth in this house. Still work worth doing. Still hands shaping dough, still laughter coming through the door tomorrow, and somewhere in the quiet spaces, in the light that breaks through at just the right moment, there’s the faint reminder that love built this life, and it still lives here.
Tonight I’ll try eat something substantial, then finally enjoy one of those bear claws while it’s still fresh, grateful for the day, imperfect and honest as it was.
February 2, 2026
It’s 6:33 PM and at long last I’ve found a chair and a few quiet minutes. If I sit too long there’s a strong possibility I’ll be asleep before I know it. That seems to be the way of things lately.
The day began at 6:30 AM with a cup of coffee, with a bit of extra coffee, intentionally brewed last night after learning that Josh is officially a coffee drinker. I figured if Bob and his little brother were coming over, the least I could do was have something warm ready for them. When they arrived they brought breakfast sandwiches with them, once again Bob's generosity was in evidence.
When I first looked outside, it was 22°. Twenty-two. Far too cold for my liking. The forecast promised 39°, but without a hint of sun I had my doubts. With the garage door open most of the day and a good portion of the work happening outdoors, I can assure you it never felt anywhere near 39°. My fingers were so cold at one point I couldn’t feel them. I had to retreat inside more than once just to thaw out.
But cold or not, we made substantial progress.
The gun rack is now cut out and largely assembled. Josh got hands on experience with tools he had never used before, a small handheld router, a biscuit cutter, and a doweling jig. Watching him learn and gain confidence was worth every frozen fingertip. There’s something satisfying about passing along knowledge that once felt foreign to me too.
During the build, I mentioned to Josh the idea of placing a back lit graphic at the top someday, that a hunting and fishing theme would be appropriate, maybe something remote controlled, maybe capable of different colors depending on mood, maybe even timed to come on softly in the evening. Not necessary, but meaningful. We made an allowance for that revision in the design. Whether it ever happens depends on time and expense, but the space is there.
Allowance for light.
We broke for lunch around 12:30 and enjoyed chili Bob had made and brought along. I was grateful. I hadn’t been sure I’d have time to prepare anything, and it hit the spot in a way only a warm bowl on a cold day can.
The afternoon brought more progress, though there’s still sanding, staining, polyurethane, and perhaps additional features, maybe a small drawer or hinged compartment at the bottom for cleaning supplies. Good projects always seem to grow a little as they take shape.
Bob and Josh left around 3:00/3:30 so Josh could make it to work on time. After cleaning up the garage and getting the car back inside, I nearly ignored a call from a number I didn’t recognize. Turns out it was Bob, asking if he’d left his phone here, calling from his wifes cell phone.
He wondered if it had fallen into the driveway. I told him I certainly hoped not, because I had already driven straight through the exact spot where his truck had been parked. That would’ve been the end of it.
I stepped outside. Nothing.
Came back in to grab my phone to call his number with hope that might help me locate it, only to find my phone ringing again. This time he was calling from his wifes phone to say he’d found it. I could hear her laughing in the background, “He’s losing it, Tony. He’s losing it.”
I told him I think we’re all losing it. This getting old business has its pitfalls.
Now the house is quiet again. The tools are put away. The project rests mid stride, waiting for the next session. I’m exhausted, the honest kind that comes from effort, cold air, shared laughter, and work done with purpose.
I may turn on the news, though I’m not sure I have the appetite for it. The world feels louder than it used to. Maybe I’ll grab a bite to eat, though I’m not particularly hungry. More than likely I’ll make a few blog entries before calling it a day.
Cold outside.
Warm work inside.
As the evening settles in, I’m reminded that sometimes the most important allowance for light isn’t the one we build into wood, it’s the one we quietly carry within us, even after the sun has long since disappeared...
"Words dedicated to my soulmate Fran, the light of my life..."
February 3, 2026
Cloud Cover & Loose Ends
It’s 9:25 AM and I didn’t make it into the kitchen for my first cup of coffee until nearly 9 AM.
I first woke around 6 AM, rolled over, and decided that whatever the day had in store could wait. I drifted back to sleep and didn’t resurface until about 8. Even then, I wasn’t feeling particularly spry. The body seems to negotiate terms now before it agrees to cooperate.
I stepped into the shower hoping the warm water might jump start things. Instead, it almost invited me to stay. The longer I stood there, the less I wanted to leave. Steam has a way of suspending reality for a few minutes aches soften, thoughts blur, and responsibilities feel distant. But eventually practicality wins. There are always reasons to step back out.
Outside, the sky is completely overcast, and currrently raining. No trace of sun. Thirty three degrees at the moment, though they’re predicting a high of 54°. I can live with 54°. I’d just like a little light to go with it. Warmth without brightness feels unfinished somehow.
Today’s list is fairly clear in my head and in no particular order.
First, the cable box. Yesterday morning’s episode with the television refusing to cooperate, again, was the final straw. ,It took more than an hour to coax it back to life. ,That’s happening far too often now. ,I shouldn’t have to wonder whether the TV will even turn on every time I press the button, not at the rate that cable bills run these days. So a trip to the Xfinity store is unavoidable.
Then there’s bread dough. I’d like to mix a batch and get it tucked into the refrigerator for a slow ferment. There’s something comforting about knowing tomorrow’s bread is quietly developing while I go about other things. A small act of preparation that feels steady and reliable, unlike certain electronics in this house.
Then, the HP Instant Ink situation.
That one has been simmering for a while. The promises and the delivery don’t quite align. I’ve kept up my end, paying the monthly fee, yet I’m sent ink I specifically asked not to receive. The last box arrived soaked in its own mess, ink on the cartridges, ink on the paperwork, ink everywhere. Ridiculous. Irritating. And frankly unacceptable.
It’s one thing when technology fails. It’s another when service fails with it.
So today feels like a day of tying up loose ends, replacing what isn’t working, clarifying what isn’t right, and setting things up so tomorrow runs smoother than yesterday did.
The sky may be gray this morning, but 54° suggests change is coming. Sometimes that’s enough to move forward, even if the sun hasn’t quite made its appearance yet.
And maybe that’s the lesson again today: handle what needs handled, prepare what can be prepared, and trust that even behind thick clouds, light is still doing its work.
Bread Dough, Email Cleanup, and a New Lens on Health
Tuesday Evening
Today ended up being far more productive than it felt like it might this morning. I managed to prepare a triple batch of bread dough this afternoon, and it’s now resting in the refrigerator for a slow overnight ferment. If all goes well, tomorrow I’ll be able to take it out and finish the process.
By 7:22 PM, I found myself at the computer doing the unglamorous work of deleting a backlog of emails that’s been building for days. My inbox has gotten completely out of control. Some of the subscriptions are by choice, but others I honestly don’t know how I ever got signed up for. Either way, it’s turning into a daily chore, if I skip even a single day, the time it takes to sort through it becomes ridiculous. I really need to start canceling more of these and reclaim that time.
I had a light dinner around 6 PM, just soup and garlic toast, then came right back to the desk to continue clearing out the nonsense.
I also managed to get through to HP today and hopefully made progress on the Instant Ink / cartridge lockout mess. I explained again how much I dislike the practice of locking cartridges when you unsubscribe, and how I only re-enrolled after being emphatic, more than once, that I did not want any more cartridges sent.
Despite that, another set arrived last Saturday anyway, and the situation got worse: the black cartridge appeared defective, with ink all over the packaging and instructions. That was more than enough to set me off.
HP told me I wouldn’t be charged for the cartridges, and that if I want replacements I can order them directly through the Instant Ink site, rather than having them ship automatically when they decide it’s time. They also said to keep the cartridges they sent and dispose of them however I want. I’m still hesitant to use any of them, especially with black ink smeared over everything, but I may try cleaning up the color cartridges since they don’t seem to be leaking and keep them as backups.
Later, while digging through email, I came across a message from MasterClass, one of the subscriptions I actually appreciate because it consistently offers strong content in areas I care about. I started a course tonight and ended up watching the whole thing: “AI and Medicine: Your Secret to Better Health.” It completely blew me away and gave me an entirely new perspective on how health could be tracked and improved going forward.
It also hit me hard that I wish I’d known something like this existed when Fran was still here. With everything she was carrying, and everything we were trying to manage, tools and systems like that might have helped both of us just to keep track, stay ahead of changes, and make better sense of it all.
I’ll almost certainly watch the series again, maybe more than once, because there’s a lot there. I’m thinking I should seriously explore setting up some sort of AI-assisted way to track my own health issues now and into the future.
Tonight, I’ll probably add a few more notes to the blog and then settle into the recliner, hoping to find something worthwhile on TV, after a day that mixed steady progress with the usual modern frustrations.
In the middle of it all, that familiar thought remains: how often I still find myself wishing I could turn and say, “Can you believe this?”
As if she were right beside me.
March 4, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
Today began at 6:49 AM with coffee in hand and the kind of gray, rainy sky that makes the house feel a little quieter than usual. I didn’t get much sleep the night before, but the trade-off was unexpected: a late-night question about bread shaping and folding opened the door to more ideas than I ever anticipated. By morning, even with the overcast weather and steady rain, I felt motivated, less drawn outside and more inclined to stay focused on what I could do indoors.
That theme carried through the day.
And somewhere between the rising dough and the gray morning sky, I’ll likely find myself back at the patio doors again, just standing there for a moment, watching the day unfold, and feeling as though Fran might still be standing there beside me.
Before noon, I tackled a lingering frustration that’s been nagging at me: the cable signal repeatedly dropping out. I contacted my cable provider by phone and arranged to pick up a new cable box, hoping it would finally put an end to those “connection lost” notifications. Most of the process was spent waiting on hold, but once things were in motion, it moved along quickly.
In the early afternoon I made my way to the Xfinity store, returned the old cable box, and picked up a new one without much delay. From there I headed to the market to grab a few things, though, as usual, I realized after getting home that I’d forgotten a couple items. The one thing I didn't forget was fresh flowers for Frans at home memorial. I wasn’t too worried about the forgotten items because I was eager to get back and see if the new cable box would work without a fight.
Unfortunately, frustration was definitely part of the mix.
I followed the setup directions to the letter, turned on the TV, and got… nothing.
I tried again, several times. Still nothing. Eventually I called customer service and was told the wait would be anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour, but I was able to get into a call-back queue. When the phone rang back, I was relieved to reach someone who was both patient and personable, something that makes a big difference when you’re already worn down by technology.
It took about a half hour, but together we got everything working again. Now all I can do is hope the dreaded “no signal” message doesn’t return anytime soon, or better yet, ever.
Back on the home front, the day shifted to something far more satisfying: bread. When I returned home, I baked off the three loaves that had been fermenting in the refrigerator. I tried a few creative shaping ideas, but the results didn’t quite match what I had pictured in my head. Still, the bread smelled absolutely divine, and I’m confident it’s going to taste just as good.
By early evening I had a bite to eat, around 6:30 PM, and then spent the rest of the night doing what seems to come with any good baking day, cleanup. Now, at 10:12 PM, I’m standing near the open patio door, looking out into the darkness and enjoying the cool night air. It’s been a busy day, full of errands, technology headaches, and flour, dusted effort… but also filled with the simple satisfaction that comes from creating something with my hands.
All that’s left now is to make a few blog entries, gather the day into words, and hope I can finally call it a night.
Before I close the door and turn in, I find myself pausing once more, thinking of how love and memory have a way of lingering in the quiet spaces, like a familiar presence that gently reminds me to keep moving forward.
June 5, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
It’s 9:00 AM on Thursday morning. I’m working on my first cup of coffee, yes, my first cup, after not getting out of bed until about 8:30.
Through the patio doors I can see a gentle but steady rain falling. It’s one of those quiet, persistent rains that seems to settle in for the day. The temperature is currently 57°, and the forecast says we might reach 64°, but the downside is rain expected all day and well into the evening.
One would think that at this point in my life I would have come to terms with the fact that there won’t be sunshine every day. Rain is necessary. In fact, I should probably understand that better than most since I enjoy gardening so much. Without rain, or at least water of some kind, nothing grows and life doesn’t go on.
Still, I can’t help wishing it would mostly rain at night while I’m asleep so that when I crawl out of bed in the morning I’m greeted by at least a bit of sunshine.
It seems the older I get, the more I need that morning sunlight. It helps set my mood for the day and gives me the motivation to get moving. Gray skies, heavy clouds, and rain have a way of pushing me in the opposite direction. I do eventually manage to get going, but lately it seems to take longer and requires a bit more effort to find that sense of purpose.
I actually slept quite a bit last night, though I remember being somewhat restless. When I woke up this morning I quickly realized why. Before I even made it to the kitchen for coffee, I noticed the house felt unusually warm.
Sure enough, I had forgotten to turn the thermostat down before going to bed. The house was sitting at 74°, which is far too warm for comfortable sleeping.
Normally I set it somewhere between 69° and 70°.
It’s funny, I dislike being cold when I first crawl into bed, but once I’m there I much prefer a cooler room for sleeping.
Oh well, nothing I can do about that now except perhaps set some kind of reminder so I don’t forget again. One possible solution would be installing the programmable thermostat the utility company recently sent me. Truth be told, until this morning I had almost forgotten that I even received it. Now I just have to find the motivation to install it.
My daughter called last night and invited me over for dinner this evening around 5:15. Since their menu is already planned, I’ll probably bring something for dessert. At the moment I’m not quite sure what that might be, but I’ll figure something out before the day is over.
Aside from that, there are a few household chores waiting for me today, folding some laundry, running the vacuum, and perhaps steam-cleaning the tile floors. For the life of me I can’t understand how those floors get so dirty, but because they’re mostly white with gray grout, every little thing shows up immediately.
Tomorrow I also have a doctor’s appointment at 11:00 AM at Shadyside Hospital in Pittsburgh. I may need to gather a few pieces of information to bring with me, even though I would hope the referring doctor’s office has already sent everything over. Experience has taught me not to rely too heavily on that assumption.
For now, though, I’ll sit here a little longer with my coffee, listening to the quiet rhythm of the rain outside the patio doors, and see if the day slowly finds its way forward.
Midday Soup and the Promise of Dinner
It’s 12:47 PM and the kitchen is alive with the kind of quiet activity that always seems to make a house feel a little more like home.
On the stove sits a rather large pot of vegetable and chicken soup slowly coming together. Earlier I sautéed carrots, onions, garlic, celery, and mushrooms until their aroma filled the kitchen. Those vegetables are now simmering gently in a rich chicken bone broth I made yesterday from a rotisserie chicken I picked up at the market.
There’s something satisfying about stretching a simple store-bought chicken into something deeper and more meaningful the next day.
At the moment I’m waiting for my daughter to stop by. She promised to bring some fresh zucchini, which I’ll chop up and soften briefly in the microwave before adding it to the soup along with some spinach. That should bring a little extra freshness and color to the pot.
Meanwhile, a large pot of water is boiling on another burner for homemade tortellini. Normally I would cook them directly in the soup, but today there simply isn’t enough room left in the pot with the zucchini and spinach still waiting their turn. So the tortellini will be cooked separately and added to each bowl when served. Not my usual approach, but sometimes the kitchen requires a little improvisation.
Since dinner will be at my daughter’s house tonight, the cooking won’t stop with the soup.
I’m planning a dessert that should be simple but elegant, Bartlett pears poached gently in white wine. Once tender, they’ll be served inside crisp puff pastry cups alongside a scoop of French vanilla ice cream. A little of the reduced white wine poaching syrup will likely be spooned over the top, and if time allows, I may finish everything with a cloud of freshly whipped cream.
Sometimes the nicest desserts are the ones that rely on a few good ingredients and a little patience.
Between the simmering soup, the waiting tortellini, and the pears slowly taking on the flavor of wine and warmth, the kitchen feels like it’s preparing not just a meal, but an evening.
And evenings shared around the table with family always seem to make the work worthwhile.
March 6,2026
Evening Reflections — A Day of Questions
It’s 9:45 PM and I’ve finally made my way downstairs to the family room office in hopes of recording at least a few thoughts about the day before fatigue convinces me otherwise. Physically I’m doing reasonably well at the moment, but mentally I feel drained. Even so, there’s a quiet sense of obligation to document the day while it’s still fresh in my mind.
Today revolved around something I’ve been putting off for far too long, an appointment in Pittsburgh with a urologist regarding the urinary discomfort that has been gradually worsening over the years.
When I woke this morning the weather seemed to mirror my mood. The sky was heavily overcast and the sun was nowhere to be seen. Normally I take a bit of comfort and motivation from the morning light spilling through the patio doors, but today there was none of that reassurance, just gray skies and a mind full of questions.
What unsettled me most was something I discovered the night before while looking up the doctor I was scheduled to see. Not only is she a urologist, but also an oncologist. That single word has a way of setting the imagination loose in directions it probably shouldn’t go. None of the doctors I’ve seen previously ever mentioned cancer, yet suddenly here I was headed to see a specialist who deals with it.
More than likely I was reading far too much into it, but that didn’t stop the thoughts from creeping in.
The appointment itself came and went, and like so many medical visits these days it left me with more waiting than answers. I was told that I should be contacted within about ten days with the next steps. Experience tells me that timelines in the medical world don’t always unfold quite that neatly, so for now it seems patience will once again be required.
The symptoms themselves continue their usual pattern. The cycle seems to repeat every few hours, generally somewhere between two and four. Occasionally there’s also a bit of lower back discomfort, nothing severe, but noticeable enough to be worth mentioning.
After returning home I had a small dish of pasta and a cup of coffee and tried to settle into a calmer frame of mind. The body felt relatively normal, but the mental strain of the day lingered longer than I expected.
So tonight I sit here feeling somewhat worn out, both from the anticipation that led up to the appointment and from the lingering uncertainty that follows it. For the moment, however, all that can really be done is wait and see what the coming days bring.
Some days move forward with clear direction. Others simply ask us to sit quietly with the unknown.
On nights like this, when the house grows quiet and the questions settle in, I find myself wishing I could turn and share the moment with Fran, knowing she would remind me, in her gentle way, that tomorrow will arrive soon enough.
March 7, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
A Brief Gift of Light
It’s 6:49 AM on Saturday, March 7, and much to my surprise, and great pleasure, I’m waking up to a spectacular sunrise.
The sky this morning is putting on quite a show. The colors are absolutely gorgeous, shifting and evolving by the second as the sun slowly makes its way above the horizon. Deep oranges and golds are stretching across the lower sky while soft blues and scattered clouds catch the light above, turning the entire scene into something that feels almost unreal.
For the first time this year, I’m sitting outside on the back porch in a simple folding chair. The lawn furniture hasn’t made its way out yet, but that hardly matters. The air is mild 57°and the moment feels too good to miss. With a cup of coffee in hand, I’m just sitting here watching nature’s light show unfold.
Given the kind of day I had yesterday, I suppose I should feel especially grateful for a morning like this. According to the forecast, the calm probably won’t last long. There’s talk of severe weather moving in later today, which makes this quiet sunrise feel even more meaningful.
Sometimes moments like this seem to arrive when they’re most needed, brief reminders that even after difficult days, the world still finds ways to surprise us with something beautiful.
For now, I’ll simply sit here a little longer and watch the sky change.
When the Sky Hands the Day to the Earth
By 7:37 AM the sky has clearly moved beyond the dramatic colors of the sunrise.
The brilliant oranges and golds that filled the horizon earlier have faded into a calmer daylight blue. Yet even though the color show has passed, the morning still has plenty to offer.
One thing that stands out now is how quickly the clouds are moving.
What began earlier as a slow drifting motion has turned into something noticeably faster. The clouds almost seem to be hurrying across the sky as if they have someplace to be. There must be a fair amount of turbulence higher up in the atmosphere because their movement is no longer subtle. It’s as if the sky itself is eager to move the day forward.
Meanwhile, the sunlight that once painted the clouds is now reaching down into the world around me. I can see it playing across the porch railing, casting long repeating shadows from the balusters onto the deck boards. The patterns of light and shadow stretch across the wood like quiet stripes of morning. It’s a different kind of beauty than the sunrise itself, less dramatic perhaps, but no less interesting. Instead of watching the sky change, I’m now watching how the sunlight interacts with everything it touches.
In that way the morning’s show isn’t really over.
It has simply moved from the sky…down to the earth.
Held by the Morning Sky
The sunrise this morning continues to hold me captive.
There’s something about mornings like this that completely draws me in and demands my full attention. The colors in the sky continue to shift and evolve as clouds drift slowly across the light. Blues deepen, golds soften, and shadows move almost imperceptibly across the horizon.
It’s hard to walk away from something like this.
In a strange sort of way, it feels almost like an addiction, watching the sky change from moment to moment. Each time I think the show might be winding down, something else happens: another break in the clouds, another flash of gold, another subtle shift of color that makes me pause once again.
And honestly, that’s not such a bad thing.
Yes, eventually the day will need to begin and responsibilities will call me away from this quiet moment. But for now, I think I’ll allow myself a little more time right here on the porch, with a few more cups of coffee, watching colors that most people rarely get the chance to notice.
Sometimes the best way to start a day is simply by letting the sky remind you how beautiful the world can be when you take the time to look.
And as I sit here watching the morning slowly unfold, my eyes naturally drift toward the two familiar trees standing side by side along the horizon.
That quiet little opening between them, the place I’ve come to think of as the portal, seems to frame the rising sun perfectly this morning. The light slips through their branches and vines as if the sky itself is offering a small greeting to the day. Moments like this always make me pause a little longer.
There’s a quiet comfort in that space between the trees, a feeling that I’m not entirely alone while watching the morning arrive. Perhaps it’s just memory, perhaps it’s imagination… or perhaps it’s something more gentle than either of those.
Whatever the reason, it’s enough to make me sit here a little longer with my coffee, watching the sky change and feeling grateful for another sunrise.
A View Through the Trees
The small opening between the two locust trees at the edge of the yard has slowly become something more than just part of the landscape. Over time it has turned into a quiet place of reflection—a natural frame through which the sky tells a different story each day.
Some mornings the portal opens onto fiery sunrises painted in gold and crimson. Other days it reveals a calm blue sky drifting with soft clouds. In winter it stands stark and silent against the cold air, and in summer the branches soften beneath leaves and vines.
No two mornings are ever the same.
Yet the trees remain, standing patiently as the sky moves through them day after day. It has become a place where I often pause with a cup of coffee in hand, watching the light slowly arrive and the world wake up.
Perhaps that is why I’ve come to think of this little opening between the trees as a portal—a quiet window into the passing of time, the changing seasons, and the gentle reminders that each new day brings something different.
Sometimes, if you sit there long enough and watch carefully, it almost feels as though the morning itself is saying hello.
A Window Through the Trees
Along the edge of my yard stand two old locust trees that have slowly become more than just part of the landscape. Between them is a narrow opening in the branches, a simple gap that frames the horizon in a way that almost feels intentional.
Over time I began to notice that nearly every sunrise and sunset seems to pass through that space.
Some mornings the portal opens onto a sky burning with gold and crimson. Other days it reveals quiet shades of blue, drifting clouds, or the distant glow of an approaching storm. In winter the trees stand bare and stark against the cold sky, while warmer months soften their outlines with leaves and tangled vines. No matter the season, the portal remains the same place.
It has quietly become the spot where I pause with a cup of coffee and watch the world wake up.
Day after day, the sky changes. The clouds move. The colors come and go.
But those two trees continue to stand there like old friends holding the doorway open, and sometimes, when the light is just right and the morning is especially quiet, it feels as though that small opening in the trees is more than just a view of the sky.
It feels like a place where memories pass through as well.
The Light Finds Its Way In
It’s 8:24 in the morning and after stepping back inside to refill my coffee cup, I was greeted by something I hadn’t noticed earlier.
Sunlight.
Not the dramatic sunrise colors that had captured my attention outdoors earlier, but something quieter, sunlight streaming through the patio doors and spilling across the dining room floor.
The room had become its own little theater of light and shadow. The chair backs cast long, deliberate shadows across the tile floor like the hands of a giant sundial. The dining room table caught the light just enough to illuminate the fruit bowl sitting in the center, peaches, bananas, and tomatoes glowing as if someone had carefully arranged them for a painting.
It struck me that after spending the morning watching the sky perform outside, another show had been quietly unfolding inside the house the entire time.
Light has a funny way of doing that.
It slips through windows, wraps itself around ordinary objects, and suddenly turns something as simple as a bowl of fruit into a small moment worth noticing.
Another reminder, perhaps, that beauty doesn’t always require going somewhere to find it.
Sometimes it simply waits for us to walk back inside.
A Personal Stonehenge
It’s 8:33 in the morning and the sun continues its slow climb, inching upward toward the opening between the two locust trees that have become what I’ve come to call my portal.
Watching it this morning, I couldn’t help but think of Stonehenge.
There’s something about the way the sun moves through that opening that feels almost intentional, as if nature itself had arranged the scene as a kind of marker in time.
Our ancestors were masters at this sort of observation. Long before clocks and calendars, they watched the sky. They studied how the sun rose, where it set, and how the shadows shifted through the seasons.
Their lives depended on it.
Those movements in the sky told them when it was time to plant, when it was time to harvest, and when the earth was preparing to begin another growing season.
Standing here this morning, watching the clouds drift across the sky and the sun slowly finding its way toward that opening, it’s hard not to wonder how much knowledge may have once existed that we’ve long since forgotten.
I’ve always believed that there’s been far more going on since the beginning of time than we currently understand.
Perhaps our ancestors were guided in ways we no longer recognize. Or perhaps they simply paid closer attention.
Either way, moments like this are a reminder that the sky has always been a kind of calendar, quietly marking the passage of time whether we notice it or not.
Maybe this morning is just another gentle reminder that it’s time to start thinking about the next growing season.
March 8,2026
Morning Brew & Reflections — A Table Full of Family
Today began earlier than I might have preferred, thanks to the arrival of daylight saving time and the loss of that precious hour of sleep. Still, once the coffee started working its magic and the kitchen lights came on, the day quickly found its rhythm. Brunch was on the agenda for my daughter, my son-in-law, my grandson, and his great grandmother, and I wanted everything to be ready before they arrived.
Much of the preparation had been taken care of yesterday, which turned out to be a wise decision. By around 7:00 AM I was already moving about the kitchen, and before long the quiche was in the oven. Not long after that I began working through a stack of crêpes, eventually producing about a dozen ten-inch rounds which I layered carefully between sheets of wax paper and kept warm in the bottom of the oven.
Thick-cut bacon soon followed, spread out across a foil-lined sheet pan and baked slowly until it reached that perfect balance between crisp and tender. While everything cooked, I set the table and prepared a simple but welcoming spread of fresh strawberries, blueberries, and peaches along with a cream-cheese and freshly whipped-cream filling for the crêpes.
By the time everyone arrived around mid-morning, everything was ready. The table was set, the food was warm, and the house carried that unmistakable aroma that only comes from a busy kitchen.
Moments like these always seem to make me think of Fran. She loved family gatherings around the table, especially when there was good food and plenty of conversation. I have no doubt she would have taken great joy in this morning’s brunch, probably moving about the kitchen beside me, offering a suggestion here and there, and making sure everyone had more than enough to eat. Even now, it’s easy to imagine her smile as the plates filled and the laughter began to build around the table.
After everyone left, the house returned to its quiet rhythm. The contrast between a lively morning and a still afternoon can sometimes feel a bit abrupt. I did manage to tackle one small task that had been calling for attention. Earlier in the day I noticed a bit of smoke drifting from the vent at the back of the stove while cooking the bacon. A quick look inside revealed the culprit, a small pool of caramelized sugary residue at the bottom of the oven that had begun to burn.
Considering how frequently the oven has been working lately, I decided it was probably time to give it a thorough cleaning. That task occupied a little while in the afternoon, and once it was finished I settled into the recliner with the intention of finding something worthwhile to watch on television.
The afternoon that followed turned out to be one of those quiet, drifting stretches of time, a bit of television here, a little dozing there, and not much else accomplished. Truth be told, after the activity of the morning, perhaps that was exactly what the day required.
Now, as evening settles in around 7:00 PM, I find myself reflecting on the simple balance of it all, a table full of family in the morning, a quiet house in the afternoon, and the gentle winding down of another day.
And somewhere in the background of it all, the feeling that Fran would have approved of the whole thing, especially the part where everyone left the table full and happy.
March 9, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
It’s 7:31 AM on Monday, March 9, and at the moment it certainly appears that the day ahead may be a beautiful one.
Over time I’ve come to think of that opening between them as a kind of portal, an ever, changing window through which each new day makes its entrance. Some mornings the sun bursts through dramatically, while other mornings, like today, it approaches more gently, sending ahead only a soft preview of the colors still to come.
The only clouds visible are resting quietly along the horizon, like a thin blanket stretched across the distant hills, while everything above them remains crystal clear. The current temperature is 44°, with a forecast calling for a high of 68° and plenty of sunshine with little or no cloud cover. I must admit, that’s a forecast I could easily learn to live with, and I can only hope it proves accurate.
For now, there are still no signs of the sun peeking above the horizon line, though it may already be there, simply hidden behind the thin line of clouds sitting directly along the edge of the earth.
This early hour always carries a certain stillness with it. A moment when the day has not yet fully decided what it will become.
There are a few things I’d like to take care of today. Whether I actually get to them or not isn’t a major concern, nothing is urgent. Just a handful of small tasks that would be nice to address if the mood and energy line up.
Sitting in the refrigerator at the moment are a couple packages of laminated dough patiently waiting for their fate. Chances are I’ll do something with them today. I certainly don’t want them to go to waste after all the effort that went into preparing them.
Truth be told, I probably need to put a bit of a leash on all this baking. Not because I don’t enjoy it, quite the opposite. But storage space is beginning to tell the story. Both freezers are already packed to capacity.
On the bright side, my friends and family don’t seem to mind the overflow one bit. Fresh baked goods always seem to find a very welcoming home when they leave this kitchen. Perhaps that’s part of the quiet joy in it all, the simple act of making something good and sharing it with the people around you.
Mornings like this always seem to carry a quiet reminder of Fran.
She had a way of noticing days like this long before anyone else did, when the sky was clear, the air still cool, and the promise of warmth lingered just beyond the horizon. I can imagine her standing beside me now, coffee cup in hand, looking out across the yard and smiling at the simple beauty of it all.
She would have loved a morning like this.
Of course, a morning like this has a way of nudging a person toward the kitchen.
With those packages of laminated dough waiting patiently in the refrigerator, chances are fairly good the house will once again fill with the familiar scent of butter and warm pastry before the day is over. Whether they become bear claws, twists, or something entirely different remains to be seen.
Sometimes the best creations come from simply letting the dough, and the day, decide what they want to become.
And so the day begins quietly, with a cup of coffee, a clear sky slowly welcoming the rising sun, and the quiet anticipation of whatever the hours ahead may bring. Perhaps there will be pastries in the oven later, their warm buttery aroma drifting through the house. Perhaps the day will simply unfold at its own unhurried pace. Either way, mornings like this have a way of reminding me how fortunate I’ve been, to have shared so many of them with Fran, and to still feel her presence in the gentle rhythm of days like today.
It’s now 7:58 AM, and the old Handmaker is certainly beginning to make its presence known.
I stepped out onto the deck for a moment to take a few photographs as the sun finally pushed its way above the horizon. Even though the air is still quite cool, cool enough to require a lightweight jacket, there’s something incredibly refreshing about standing outside in the early morning light. The crispness in the air seems to wake up the senses in a way that a warm house never quite can.
From where I stand on the deck, the sun now sits just above the distant tree line, casting a warm golden glow across the landscape. It’s one of those simple moments that reminds me why I enjoy greeting the day outdoors whenever I can.
Thus far, things are looking quite good.
With the temperature expected to climb into the upper sixties later today, I’m beginning to think this might be a good opportunity to tackle something I’ve been putting off for a while—cleaning up the garage. At the moment it looks as though it belongs to a hoarder, with boxes and stacks of things scattered everywhere, many of which probably haven’t seen the light of day in years.
Perhaps today is the day to start reclaiming a little order out there.
Thus far, things are looking quite good.
A Moment of Perspective
Sitting here at the dining room table, directly in front of the patio doors with sunlight streaming in rather prolifically, I can’t help but feel thankful for the peacefulness that surrounds me.
With so much insanity unfolding across the world right now, I realize just how fortunate I am to occupy this small, quiet corner of it.
Even though I remain deeply interested, perhaps even profoundly interested, in what is happening beyond my own horizon, I often find myself avoiding the news. Not out of ignorance, but simply because so much of what is reported feels overwhelmingly depressing.
The thought of innocent people simply trying to live their lives, suddenly forced to endure bombs exploding around them or the fear of someone knocking on their door in the middle of the night and hauling them away, seems so terribly pointless.
It makes me wonder when the world will finally wake up and recognize that we are all sharing this same fragile place together. Everyone is entitled to an opinion, certainly, but when opinions begin dictating life-and-death outcomes for others, something has clearly gone terribly wrong.
Of course, history tells us that conflict and struggle have been with humanity since the beginning of recorded time. You would think that after thousands of years we might have learned something from it all. Yet at times it feels as though the situation is only becoming worse, perhaps fueled by greed, power, and the endless pursuit of control.
I certainly don’t claim to have any solutions. But it is a problem that deserves far more thought and reflection than it often receives.
From where I sit this morning, watching the sunlight spill across the room, it becomes painfully clear how fragile peace really is.
Perhaps what the world needs most right now is for its leaders, and the rest of us as well, to take a step back, sit quietly at a table with a cup of coffee, watch a sunrise, and remember to treat one another with a little more kindness.
8:30 AM
It’s now 8:30 AM, and the sunlight streaming through the patio doors has become quite intense. The warmth it provides feels almost like a gentle embrace, soft, reassuring, and oddly comforting.
There’s something about that early morning sunlight as it fills the room. It wraps around you in a quiet way, almost as if it’s trying to whisper that everything will somehow be alright, even though the rational part of your mind may seriously doubt that will always be the case.
Still, in moments like this, it becomes easier to set those worries aside, if only for a little while.
All in all, and at least so far, this morning will likely remain a memorable one—not because of anything particularly dramatic or extraordinary, but simply because of the quiet comfort it provides.
And so the morning continues quietly, the sunlight now fully filling the room and stretching across the floor as the day slowly gathers itself. Whatever the wider world may bring, this small moment of warmth and stillness feels like something worth holding onto. A reminder that even in uncertain times, there are simple gifts, a sunrise, a cup of coffee, a warm beam of light through a window, that offer a quiet kind of reassurance that life, at least for now, is still unfolding just as it should.
Leftovers and Sunlight
This morning’s mental gymnastics must have burned more calories than I realized because before long I found myself feeling a bit hungry. Fortunately, the refrigerator still held the remains of yesterday’s brunch, and I have to admit, these might be some of the most appetizing leftovers I’ve had in quite some time.
Wouldn’t it be nice if every day’s leftovers were this good?
Yesterday’s brunch had gone off without a hitch. The crêpes were thin and delicate, the quiche baked just right, and the pastries turned out better than I could have hoped. There was plenty of conversation around the table and, as always when family gathers, the food seemed to disappear almost as quickly as it was served.
But this morning, with the house quiet again, the remnants of that meal took on a slightly different character.
The sunlight was pouring through the dining room windows in that strong, golden way it sometimes does early in the day. It stretched across the table, lighting the wood grain and catching the edges of the plates as if it were deliberately highlighting the scene. Even the leaves of the plants nearby seemed to lean toward the warmth.
I reheated a few of the leftovers, a crêpe filled with cream and berries, a slice of quiche, and one of the pastries that had managed to escape yesterday’s enthusiastic appetites. A cup of coffee rounded things out nicely.
Sitting there in the quiet, it struck me that leftovers from a shared meal carry a certain kind of memory with them. They’re not just food; they’re reminders of the moments that came before, the laughter around the table, the passing of plates, the casual conversations that stretch out longer than anyone expected.
This morning those small echoes were still present.
The crêpe, with its soft fold around the berries and cream, tasted just as good as it had yesterday. The quiche held its savory richness, and the pastry, with its flaky layers and berry filling peeking through, felt almost like a reward for the effort that went into making it.
Sunday Light & Second Helpings
Some mornings unfold quietly, asking very little of us except that we sit still long enough to notice them.
The house was calm this morning, the kind of calm that often follows a day when family has filled the rooms with conversation and laughter. Yesterday’s brunch had been a success, crêpes stacked neatly between sheets of wax paper, quiche baked until the top turned golden, and pastries disappearing faster than they could cool.
Today, what remained sat waiting in the refrigerator.
The sunlight streaming through the dining room windows seemed almost intentional, spilling across the table as if inviting a second look at the simple pleasures left behind. A cup of coffee, still warm in my hand, made the invitation impossible to refuse.
I started with a crêpe, thin and delicate, filled with whipped cream/cream cheese, and bright berries. Even after a night in the refrigerator it still carried the same balance of flavors that made it so good yesterday.
Nearby sat a slice of quiche and another rolled crêpe drizzled with strawberry sauce, the plate catching the morning light as if it had been placed there for a photograph.
And then there was the pastry, flaky layers opening just enough to reveal the berry filling inside, proof that sometimes the smallest indulgences make the best companions to a quiet cup of coffee.
A flaky pastry, its layers golden and delicate, opens slightly to reveal a generous berry filling. Paired with coffee and warm morning light, it becomes the perfect companion to a quiet start to the day.
There’s something comforting about leftovers from a meal shared with family. They carry with them the memory of the gathering itself, the conversations, the laughter, the simple joy of sitting together around a table.
This morning, those memories felt close.
The sunlight warmed the table, the coffee steamed gently from the mug, and the quiet house seemed content to hold the moment just a little longer.
Not every morning asks us to do something remarkable.
Sometimes it’s enough simply to sit, enjoy what remains from yesterday, and let the day begin slowly,and on mornings like this, that feels like more than enough.
Sometimes the quiet after a gathering has its own kind of beauty.
The sunlight, the smell of coffee, the simple act of sitting down to enjoy what remains from a meal shared with people you love, these things may seem small, but they carry a surprising amount of comfort.
I couldn’t help but think that Fran would have appreciated this moment.
She always enjoyed mornings like this, when the house was calm again and the kitchen still carried the faint traces of something good that had been made there the day before. I can see her smiling at the plate and saying something along the lines of, “Well, you certainly didn’t let any of it go to waste.”
And she would have been right.
So here I sit, coffee in hand, sunlight warming the table, enjoying a second round of yesterday’s efforts.
Not a bad way to begin the day.
From Conversation to Stromboli
Around noon today I noticed that Fran’s cousin Frank had called me last night. Frank’s wife passed away recently and he spent about a week here not long ago, so I thought I should return his call.
We ended up talking for about half an hour, catching up on what’s been happening in each of our lives. Frank mentioned that he’ll soon be traveling to Florida to visit his cousin James, who had also been here during the difficult time after his wife passed, along with James’s brother Frankie, who also lives down there.
Before we hung up, Frank mentioned that once he returns home in April he might like to come up and spend a weekend visiting. I told him that, at least from what I can see right now, that shouldn’t be a problem at all. He would certainly be welcome. Of course, I also explained that I don’t yet know what might be coming up with my doctor appointments, tests, or possible surgery, so we’ll just have to see how things unfold.
After ending the call, I wandered into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator to see what might be hiding inside that could turn into dinner, or perhaps a few snacks for later in the week.
That’s when I spotted a bit of pizza dough tucked toward the back of the refrigerator.
Once that discovery was made, the wheels started turning.
Out came the marinara sauce with garlic and mushrooms, some mozzarella cheese, a little olive oil, and the remaining piece of quiche from yesterday’s brunch. The quiche had sausage, onions, garlic, mushrooms, broccoli, grated potatoes, and cheddar cheese, which sounded like it might make a pretty interesting filling.
I stretched the dough out on the counter, brushed it lightly with olive oil, then spread a thin layer of marinara across the surface.
The leftover quiche was crumbled evenly over the top and finished with a generous layer of freshly grated mozzarella.
From there it was simply a matter of rolling the whole thing up Stromboli style, making a few slashes across the top to let the steam escape, and sliding it into a 500-degree oven for about fifteen to twenty minutes.
While waiting for it to bake, I stepped outside.
The air felt almost like summertime. The sky was a beautiful pale blue and the sun had just passed its midday point, sending long, radiant beams of warmth across the yard. Standing there in that sunlight, it struck me that the feeling was probably not all that different from what the Stromboli must have experienced when it hit the heat of that 500-degree oven.
I checked on it a couple of times and decided it needed just a little more color, so after about twenty minutes I removed the foil I had placed over the top, sprinkled on a bit of grated Parmesan cheese, and slid it back in for a few more minutes.
When it finally came out of the oven, the result far exceeded my expectations.
Now the only challenge is letting it cool long enough before cutting into it later today.
That may turn out to be the hardest part of the entire process.
Kitchen Notebook — Leftover Quiche Stromboli
Sometimes the best recipes aren’t planned at all. They happen when you open the refrigerator, notice a few leftovers, and decide to see what might happen if you put them together.
That’s exactly how this Stromboli came about.
After yesterday’s brunch there was still a small piece of quiche left, there was also a bit of pizza dough tucked toward the back of the refrigerator.
From there, the idea more or less assembled itself.
Ingredients
1 portion pizza dough
1–2 tablespoons olive oil
½ cup marinara sauce (garlic and mushroom marinara works beautifully)
1 slice leftover quiche, crumbled
1 cup freshly grated mozzarella cheese
2 tablespoons grated Parmesan cheese
Optional: dried oregano or Italian seasoning
Method
Preheat the oven to 500°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
Stretch the pizza dough into a large rectangle on the parchment.
Brush the dough lightly with olive oil.
Spread a thin layer of marinara sauce across the dough, leaving about an inch clear around the edges.
Evenly crumble the leftover quiche over the sauce.
Sprinkle the mozzarella cheese generously across the filling.
Roll the dough up tightly Stromboli-style, starting from the long side.
Pinch the seam and ends closed, then place the roll seam-side down on the baking sheet.
Cut several small vent slashes across the top.
Bake for 15–20 minutes, loosely tenting with foil if the crust browns too quickly.
Remove the foil near the end, sprinkle the top with Parmesan cheese, and return to the oven for a few more minutes to finish browning.
The Result
A beautifully crisp crust with a warm, savory filling — the flavors of quiche and pizza meeting somewhere in the middle.
The hardest part of the whole process is letting it cool long enough before slicing.
Cook’s Note
Leftovers can be surprisingly versatile. Quiche, roasted vegetables, bits of sausage, or even scrambled eggs can all find a second life wrapped inside pizza dough and baked like this.
Sometimes the refrigerator provides the best inspiration.
Apparently the heat inside the oven and the warmth from the sun outside both brought the day to life.
Afternoon Turns Social
Shortly after I removed the Stromboli from the oven and set it aside to cool, my good friend Bob called, around 2 PM.
He mentioned he was playing bachelor for the evening since his wife had made other plans and asked if I might be interested in going out for dinner with him.
After a brief discussion about where we might go, and realizing that Mondays can be a little tricky since quite a few restaurants are closed, Bob said he would give it some thought and call me back once he had a few ideas.
About an hour later the phone rang again.
Bob had settled on a place called The Brick House, a local eatery not far from my house. It sounded like a perfect choice. Convenient, relaxed, and just right for an easy dinner out.
The plan now is for him to stop by here around 5:30 and we’ll head over together for a bite to eat.
It’s funny how a day can take on a life of its own.
What began as a quiet morning of reflection, a bit of cooking in the kitchen, and some unexpected sunshine has gradually turned into something a little more social. A conversation with Frank earlier in the day, the improvisation of a Stromboli from yesterday’s leftovers, and now dinner out with a good friend.
Days like this have a way of reminding me that even the most ordinary moments can quietly arrange themselves into something unexpectedly pleasant. As the afternoon drifts toward evening, it feels like this day just keeps getting better.
Evening Reflections
It’s now about 7:45 PM and I returned home roughly half an hour ago after having dinner with my friend Bob at a nearby restaurant.
As is often the case when the two of us sit down together, the conversation covered a wide range of subjects. One topic that stood out in particular was Bob’s little brother Josh and his senior project. Bob told me that the two of them recently visited a local cabinet-making shop this morning, that happens to be equipped with some of the latest and most impressive woodworking machinery available.
The owner of the shop took the time to show Josh around, explaining how much of the equipment worked and even giving him the opportunity to run some of the machines himself in conjunction with working on completing his senior project.
But the real highlight of the visit came at the end.
Before they left, the owner handed Josh one of his business cards and told him that if he might be interested in working at the shop, perhaps over the summer for a start, he should give him a call.
That was truly the icing on the cake, a plus on top of a plus on top of a plus for Josh.
I sincerely hope he takes the gentleman up on his offer. If for no other reason, it would give him the opportunity to get his feet wet in the industry and add something positive to his résumé. Opportunities like that don’t come along every day.
Bob and I talked about plenty of other things as well, though strangely enough we still weren’t able to solve all of the world’s problems, at least not yet. Bob also insisted on picking up the tab for dinner once again tonight, something I always try to protest. I keep telling him he really needs to stop doing that. But Bob being Bob simply smiled and said, “With all the food you send home with me and my wife from your kitchen, it’s the least I can do.”
Now I’m sitting here in my recliner, reflecting on the day and trying to gather my thoughts before sleep inevitably catches up with me. It’s been a fairly busy day, conversations with family, a little creativity in the kitchen, some unexpected sunshine, and an evening spent with a good friend.
Truthfully, if sleep comes soon, that wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen. In fact, it might be exactly what I need. All in all, another day completed with quite a bit accomplished and time spent with good friends. When you think about it, that’s not a bad way for any day to end.
One More Highlight
Lest I forget, there was yet another highlight to the day.
Earlier this afternoon I had the opportunity to speak briefly with my granddaughter Sophia 🦄 in North Carolina, who turned sixteen today. Not only was it her birthday, but she had also gone with her father, my son, to take her driver’s test.
And she passed.
So sometime in the near future she’ll officially be receiving her driver’s permit.
I had sent her a little birthday gift through Venmo earlier in the day, and just before I left to meet Bob for dinner she called to thank me. We didn’t have a great deal of time to talk, but I truly appreciated that she took the time to call.
Moments like that mean a lot.
The whole coming-of-age moment that comes with learning to drive has always made me a little uneasy, first with my own children and now with my grandchildren. I suppose that’s because I was once a young man myself and remember very clearly what that stage of life felt like.
Let’s just say I’ve been around the block a few times.
Whenever I talk with any of them about driving I try not to sound like I’m lecturing, but I always remind them of one simple thing: be careful, pay attention to everything happening around you, and never assume that everyone else on the road is paying the same level of attention.
Even the best driver in the world still has to share the road with everyone else.
Still, seeing Sophia reach this milestone today filled me, and I'm certain her grandmother Fran as well, with a great deal of pride. Sixteen years have passed far more quickly than I ever imagined they would. Another small reminder of how quickly time moves along.
And yet, moments like this make me grateful that I'm here to witness them.
March 10, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
Let the Day Roll
It’s 6:11 AM and I’m working on about my third cup of coffee. I crawled out of bed around 5:15 this morning, not entirely sure whether I would stay up or eventually wander back under the covers. But once I started moving around a bit and shaking off the stiffness of sleep, it became clear that the day had already begun whether I was ready or not.
So here I am.
Outside the patio doors it’s about 50° at the moment, with the forecast calling for a high near 70 later today. Not a bad temperature swing for early March. The sky, however, is expected to remain cloud-covered most of the day, which probably rules out any respectable sunrise. Still, experience has taught me never to completely give up on the sky. Sometimes the clouds surprise you.
For now, though, the morning feels calm and unhurried.
I haven’t really developed any particular plan for the day yet. There’s nothing pressing that absolutely needs attention, at least nothing that has made itself known so far. That in itself is a bit of a luxury. Too often the day arrives already full of obligations and expectations.
Today feels different.
Today feels like one of those days where it might be best to simply let things unfold on their own terms. No rigid schedule. No carefully mapped agenda.
Just letting the hours move forward and seeing what presents itself along the way.
Sometimes those turn out to be the most interesting days of all.
So for now I’ll sit here a little longer with my coffee, watch the morning take shape through the patio doors, and let the day roll in as it wishes.
Whatever comes… comes.
Even with the clouds hanging overhead this morning, I’ll probably wander out onto the deck before long just to see what the sky has in mind.
The opening between the locust trees, the portal as I’ve come to think of it, has a way of revealing things you might otherwise overlook. Sometimes the light slips through there quietly, filtering down through the branches as if it had somewhere specific to be.
It doesn’t always arrive with blazing color or dramatic clouds.
Sometimes it’s softer than that… almost like a gentle reminder that the day has begun.
Mornings like this often bring thoughts of Fran back to me. She loved these quiet starts to the day, the simple comfort of coffee, the changing sky, and the peacefulness that seems to exist just before the world fully wakes up.
I can imagine her sitting with me on the deck, looking toward that same opening in the trees, noticing details I might have missed.
In moments like that, the morning feels a little less empty, and maybe that’s part of why I continue to watch the sky so closely now. Because every once in a while, when the light passes through that little opening between the trees, it almost feels like a quiet hello.
The coffee grows cooler, the sky grows brighter, and the portal waits patiently for the light.
Another morning has begun.
Every morning begins with coffee and a look toward the sky. The opening between the locust trees has become my quiet window into the day ahead. Sometimes the sun arrives there with brilliant color, sometimes only soft light and drifting clouds. Either way, it’s a reminder that the world keeps turning and another page of the day is about to be written.
Midday Interruption of Light
It’s 12:13 PM and while standing in the kitchen working on some pastries,rolling the dough out and preparing to fold and shape it, I suddenly noticed the dining room and kitchen becoming noticeably brighter.
At first I wasn’t entirely sure what had changed, but it only took a moment to realize the most likely explanation: the sun had finally managed to push its way through the cloud cover.
Curiosity got the better of me.
I wiped the flour from my hands, grabbed my phone, and stepped out onto the deck to see what was happening. Sure enough, my assumption was correct. The clouds had opened just enough to allow the sun to break through, flooding the yard and the house with a warm burst of light.
The temperature outside is sitting at about 67°, though it honestly feels warmer than that with the sun making an appearance. The sky is still carrying a good deal of cloud cover, but clearly not enough to keep the sun hidden entirely.
Sometimes it only takes a small opening in the clouds to completely change the mood of the day.
Somewhere between cleaning my hands and stepping outside, the phone rang. It was the doctor’s office letting me know they needed me to sign a release form so they could obtain some imaging I had done previously. I’ve managed to work my way through most of that process, downloading the form, printing it, signing it, and now I’m simply waiting for them to call back so they can walk me through how they want it returned.
Apparently a simple text message won’t do, so patience is the order of the moment.
In the meantime, the pastries are waiting for me back in the kitchen, the sun is playing hide-and-seek with the clouds, and the day continues unfolding one small interruption at a time.
Afternoon Pause — Pastries, Patience, and Possibilities
It’s 3:40 PM and I’ve just pulled four pastries from the oven, the buttery layers of laminated dough having finally finished their slow transformation into something golden and crisp. The kitchen still carries that warm aroma of butter and flour, a fragrance that always feels like a small reward after the patience required to fold and rest the dough again and again.
There’s still enough dough resting quietly in the refrigerator for four more pastries on another day. Perhaps tomorrow… perhaps not. We’ll see what tomorrow brings.
Earlier today I received a call from the doctor’s office asking me to complete an authorization for the release of protected health information from the doctor I saw last Friday. Someone from the office told me it could be handled wirelessly, so I downloaded the form, printed it, signed it, and scanned it back into the computer.
Now I find myself waiting again.
I searched through the hospital portal as best I could but couldn’t locate anything that clearly explained how to return the document. So for the moment, I suppose the only option is patience. Unfortunately, patience is a little harder to maintain when you’re dealing with pain. I doubt the people on the other end of that phone call fully realize just how uncomfortable things become when I have to relieve myself.
Outside, the clouds have returned and the sky has taken on that dull gray color that seems to flatten the afternoon. I’ve thought about going outside to sit for a while, maybe breathe in some fresh air and watch the sky drift by, but I haven’t quite made it there yet.
There’s still a bit of cleanup left from this morning’s pastry project, and at some point I suppose I should think about what I might eat for dinner, if anything at all.
Somewhere in between all of this I spent a little time researching how to learn guitar. It’s something I’ve been working on for quite a while. The trouble is that most of what I find seems designed for people who already understand far more than a beginner like me. Add in a bit of arthritis in the hands and the learning curve feels even steeper.
Still, the thought hasn’t gone away.
There’s something about the sound of a guitar, especially smooth jazz, that feels inviting. Warm, expressive, almost conversational. I can’t help but think it would be satisfying to sit quietly someday and coax even a few pleasant notes out of the strings.
For now though, the pastries are cooling on the counter, the sky remains gray, and the afternoon continues to move along at its own unhurried pace.
Perhaps later I’ll step outside for a bit.
And perhaps someday, I’ll finally figure out that guitar.
March 11, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
It’s 8:10 AM on this Wednesday morning and, just as the forecast predicted, the day has begun on a rather gloomy note.
The temperature itself is quite comfortable, about 60 degrees, but the rain has been falling steadily since I got out of bed around 6 AM. The forecast is calling for a full day of it with a 100% chance of rain. Not exactly the kind of morning that encourages much enthusiasm for venturing outdoors.
Still, as I sit here at the dining room table working on my third cup of coffee and looking through the patio doors, I notice the clouds seem to be thinning just a bit. Every now and then a streak of sunlight breaks through, lighting the deck for a moment before slipping back behind the gray curtain of clouds. I doubt it will last long, but even a brief appearance from the sun feels like a small gift.
Breakfast today was simple, a bowl of cereal with some fruit. Nothing elaborate, just enough to get the day started.
There are a few practical matters on my agenda. I need to call my financial advisor regarding getting my taxes prepared. His office contacted me over a week ago suggesting that I reach out to a tax accountant they work with. I did call and left a message but haven’t heard anything back yet. With April 15 approaching faster than I’d like, I certainly don’t want to risk getting caught up in penalties or unnecessary complications.
Another thing that caught my attention this morning while browsing through a home improvement ad was a sale on raised-bed gardening soil. They’re advertising it for one dollar a bag, a huge drop from the usual ten dollars or so. That’s the kind of deal that’s hard to ignore. The only challenge now is figuring out how to get thirty or forty bags, maybe even more, transported here and unloaded into the garden. I don’t necessarily need to spread it out right away, but having it ready for when the weather finally cooperates would certainly make things easier, and a lot less expensive.
In between the rain showers and daily chores, I’m also planning to spend some time with the guitar today, working through some of the exercises I started yesterday. I’ve been a little lax with practice lately, but something in me is pushing to establish a more consistent daily routine again. Progress doesn’t happen by accident.
Sitting patiently in the refrigerator is the remaining batch of laminated dough I made yesterday. The pastries I baked came out wonderfully, so before that dough ends up being wasted, I should probably do something with it today. If I do, I may experiment with a different folding or shaping technique just to expand my repertoire a bit. Half the fun of working with dough is discovering new forms it can take.
So for now, the rain continues, the coffee cup is slowly emptying, and the day is still unfolding.
We’ll see where it decides to take me.
Bread, Friendship, and a Stormy Sky
It’s 4:47 PM and I’ve finally found a quiet moment to sit down before returning to the kitchen.
Just a short while ago I finished preparing a triple batch of bread dough. Over the next several hours it will need the familiar rhythm of folding, resting, chilling, and folding again before it’s ready to be shaped and baked tomorrow.
Bread making has always required patience. In some ways it feels like life itself, a series of pauses, small adjustments, and waiting for something good to rise.
Earlier this afternoon, around two o’clock, I gathered together a collection of things I had prepared over the past few days and brought them over to Fran’s dear friend Nancy.
Nancy recently moved into a new home and is still in the process of getting settled, so I thought it might be nice if she didn’t have to worry about cooking for a day or two.
The delivery included some homemade chicken and vegetable soup, a loaf of fresh bread, homemade pizza, a generous portion of stromboli, a few of the crêpes left over from brunch along with fresh fruit, cream cheese and whipped cream for filling, and a couple of Danish pastries for good measure.
She was genuinely thrilled with everything and kindly gave me a tour of her newly purchased home.
Nancy was a dear friend to Fran, the kind of friend who shows up when life becomes difficult. Much like Bob has been that kind of friend to me.
The two of them shared a lot of hard moments together over the years, and I know without question that there was very little Nancy wouldn’t have done for Fran.
Since Fran’s passing she has continued to show that same kindness toward me, something I will always be grateful for.
Seeing her beginning this new chapter in a new home felt like a hopeful thing. I truly wish her the very best in this new adventure.
Outside, the day has been unsettled. The temperature is hovering around seventy degrees but rain has been falling on and off throughout the afternoon with occasional gusts of wind. The National Weather Service has issued a tornado warning for our area until eight o’clock this evening. Hopefully it never comes to that.
There’s not much I can do to influence the weather, so for now I’ll simply hope for the best.
In the meantime I think I’ll spend a little time practicing my guitar and try to gently settle back into a daily rhythm again. They say practice makes perfect. I doubt I’ll ever get anywhere near perfect in the time I have left, but that really isn’t the point.
Sometimes the music is simply about continuing to play.
And somehow I think Fran would like that.
March 12, 2026
Some days don’t announce themselves as meaningful while they’re happening. They unfold quietly, one small task after another, laundry folded, floors vacuumed, dough shaped, ideas tried and retried. Only later, when the house grows still and the day finally slows enough to reflect, do you realize how much life managed to fit inside those ordinary hours.
Morning Brew & Reflections
It’s 7:32 on a Thursday morning and the world outside the patio doors looks about as uninspired as a morning can possibly be.
The temperature sits stubbornly at 33°, though the weather service insists it feels like 21. I don’t need a meteorologist to confirm that. One look at the slate colored sky and the heavy blanket of clouds overhead tells the whole story. Sunrise is technically scheduled for 7:35, but you would never know it. There isn’t the slightest hint of sunlight anywhere, just a gray ceiling stretching from horizon to horizon.
Not exactly the sort of morning I enjoy waking up to.
Mornings, at least for me, tend to set the emotional tone for the rest of the day. When the sun rises bright and confident, the day feels full of possibility. When the sky looks like this, motivation can be a little harder to come by.
Still, life quietly continues moving forward whether we feel like it or not.
Last night my friend Bob called to ask if it would be alright for him and his little brother Josh to come by later this afternoon. They’re hoping to finish up the gun rack Josh has been building for his senior project. I told him it shouldn’t be a problem, just to let me know when they plan to arrive so I can plan the day around it.
Truth be told, it will be good to have them here. A little conversation and a bit of sawdust in the air tends to brighten even a gray day.
Meanwhile, the kitchen is already hosting a few projects of its own. Sitting quietly in the refrigerator is a triple batch of bread dough, slowly doing its thing while I sit here working through my second cup of coffee. Alongside it is a batch of laminated dough that definitely needs attention today, folds, resting time, and whatever shape it eventually decides to become.
Then there’s the laundry waiting patiently in the dryer, reminding me that even the simplest tasks eventually ask for completion.
For the moment though, I’m content to sit here at the dining room table, coffee cup in hand, staring out into the gray sky while the sleet drifts down almost lazily.
My mind keeps whispering that I should get up and get moving, start folding dough, fold the laundry, prepare for the afternoon’s woodworking project. My body, however, seems far less enthusiastic about the idea.
It’s one of those mornings where the right side of the brain is ready to conquer the world, while the rest of the body is still negotiating with the coffee.
And if I’m being honest, mornings like this used to unfold a little differently.
Fran had a quiet way of bringing warmth into even the grayest mornings. Sometimes it was something as simple as the sound of her moving around the kitchen or the gentle clink of a coffee cup against the counter. Other times it was just her presence, the comforting feeling that the day, no matter how dull it might look outside, was still something worth stepping into.
Even now, on mornings like this, I can see her standing somewhere behind me, smiling gently and saying the same thing she used to say when I lingered too long over my coffee:
"Alright… enough staring at the clouds. Go do something."
She always had a way of making that sound less like an order and more like encouragement.
So sooner or later I’ll get up from this chair. The bread dough will get folded, the laminated dough will get its attention, the laundry will find its way into drawers, and later this afternoon Bob and Josh will arrive with tools in hand to finish that gun rack.
For now though, I think I’ll allow myself one more quiet moment with this second cup of coffee.
Even gray mornings have their place, and sometimes all a day really needs is a little patience…
and a gentle nudge from someone who still manages to whisper encouragement from somewhere just beyond the clouds.
A Full Day from Laundry to Light
It’s 9:53 PM and this is the first real opportunity I’ve had all day to sit down. That alone probably says enough about how the day unfolded.
The morning started around 9 AM with something simple enough, heading down to the laundry room to pull clothes from the dryer and fold them. Once that was finished, I decided to keep the momentum going and vacuumed the entire upstairs: living room, dining room, kitchen, bedrooms, hallway, and even the steps. By the time that was done the house felt refreshed, and so did I.
With that behind me, my attention turned to the bread dough that had been resting patiently in the refrigerator. I pulled the first piece out, shaped it, and set it aside for a short final rise.
For some time now I’ve been trying to add something decorative to my bread, specifically butterflies. I’ve attempted it several times before, but the results have never quite matched what I had envisioned. Still, persistence has a way of teaching lessons.
For the first loaf today I made a stencil, carefully cutting it out and planning to place it on the dough so I could build a decorative design around it.
Unfortunately, things didn’t quite go according to plan. The stencil stuck to the dough and nearly ruined the entire loaf. For a moment I thought I might have to start over, but with a little patience I managed to remove it and salvage the bread well enough to produce a presentable finished loaf.
After that loaf came out of the oven, I shifted gears for a bit and headed downstairs to the computer. Bob and I had talked about creating some graphics for Josh’s gun rack project, and although we weren’t in any rush, I thought it might be a good time to experiment with the idea.
The space on the rack was an odd size, so instead of one large graphic I decided to use three separate images. I built a heavy mat from quarter-inch foam core to mount them. Everything seemed fine until I painted it black. Once the paint hit the surface, the foam core began to delaminate a bit, which told me that next time a thinner wood backing would probably be a better solution. Still, the concept worked. I was able to mock up the panels and add backlighting, and seeing them illuminated confirmed that the idea itself was sound.
Around 2:33 PM Bob called to let me know that Josh wouldn’t be able to make it over today. Since Bob is heading out on vacation for a week, finishing the project will probably have to wait until he returns.
Once I finished experimenting with the graphics and cleaned up the mess downstairs, I made my way back to the kitchen. The thought of that butterfly design on the bread was still lingering in my mind.
For the second loaf I decided to try a different approach. This time I hand cut a vinyl stencil. It worked better than the first attempt, still not exactly what I’m aiming for, but definitely progress.
Instead of flour, I brushed very dark food coloring over the stencil to create a clear outline. Once I removed it, I carefully cut around the butterfly shape and scored the bread before placing it into the Dutch oven.
After about 25 minutes of baking, I removed the lid and could immediately see that this attempt had come closer to what I had envisioned. The butterfly shape was visible and beginning to develop some character.
When the bread came out of the oven and cooled slightly, I took a bit of gel food coloring and gently dabbed color onto the butterfly’s wings. That small touch helped emphasize the design and brought the whole idea a little closer to life.
By the time everything was finished, the kitchen had been cleaned once again and the day had finally begun to slow down.
Now, as I sit here preparing these notes for the blog, the fatigue of the day is definitely catching up with me. I suspect that once I finish writing and settle back into the chair, sleep won’t be far behind.
Some days are quiet. Some days are productive, and sometimes, if you’re lucky, you manage to get a little bit of both.
Tonight the butterfly loaf is resting quietly on the counter, its wings still carrying a little color from the brush I used after the bake. It’s not perfect, but it’s closer to the image I had in mind than any attempt before it. I can't help but remember how often I would tell Fran that the beauty of things often lives in those small improvements we make along the way, and that there is always room for improvement.
Tomorrow, if the dough and the day allow it, I may just try again.
March 13, 2026
The Morning I Was Meant to See
It began much earlier than I ever intended.
At around five o'clock in the morning I found myself awake, courtesy of a stubborn case of restless leg syndrome and nature insisting that sleep was no longer an option. Getting out of bed wasn’t something I had planned on doing, but once I began wandering through the quiet house it became clear that returning to the warmth of the blankets probably wasn’t going to lead to much rest anyway.
So I made my bed and then my way to the recliner.
The house was still wrapped in darkness. The only light came from a small lamp left on in the kitchen, just enough to illuminate the tile floor and the familiar outlines of the dining table and chairs. Outside the patio doors there was nothing but darkness. Sunrise wouldn’t arrive until around 7:33, and the thermometer hovered just below freezing.
It was one of those quiet hours when the world seems to be holding its breath.
No real plans for the day had taken shape yet. I simply sat there in the stillness, watching the dark glass of the patio doors and waiting for the first hints of morning to arrive.
Then, slowly, something began to change.
The darkness outside softened ever so slightly. The black sky turned to a deep blue, and before long the horizon began to glow. What followed was something I never expected when I first dragged myself out of bed at 5:00 AM.
The sky erupted.
Brilliant oranges, reds, and pinks began spreading across the horizon beneath a canopy of deep blue clouds. The transformation was rapid, almost frantic, as the colors shifted and intensified with each passing minute.
Suddenly the quiet house became a launching point for a morning chase.
Up from the recliner, camera in hand, I hurried to the patio doors. A few quick photographs through the opened patio door. Then outside to the deck. Back inside again. Out once more as the sky changed yet again. The whole scene was unfolding so quickly it felt impossible to keep up.
The familiar trees that form what I’ve come to call “the portal” stood silhouetted against the glowing horizon, framing the sunrise as they have so many mornings before. Only today the colors seemed richer, more dramatic, almost as if the sky had decided to put on a special performance.
For several minutes the horizon burned with light while the clouds above caught every shade imaginable, violet, rose, crimson, and gold.
Clouds above them turn violet and blue.
Then, just as quickly as it began, the moment passed.
The sun climbed higher, the colors softened, and the sky settled into the calm blue of a new day beginning.
Standing there with the camera in my hand, I couldn’t help but wonder if there might have been a reason I found myself awake so early this morning. Perhaps it’s just the mind searching for meaning where none exists, but part of me can’t help but imagine that somewhere, somehow, Fran might have given me a gentle nudge.
“Get up,” she might have said.
“You’re going to want to see this.”
Whatever the reason, I’m grateful that I did. Because this morning the sky delivered a show I never would have seen had I simply rolled over and gone back to sleep.
And for that, I feel blessed...
By the time the clock approached two in the afternoon, the kitchen finally began to settle down after what turned into a surprisingly busy morning.
Not long after the sunrise spectacle that unfolded earlier today, I pulled the last of the fermenting dough from the refrigerator and prepared another loaf of bread to bake.
While the bread was in the oven I took advantage of the time and steam-cleaned the kitchen and dining room floors. It felt good to get a few practical things done after spending so much time watching the sky put on its show.
Somewhere in the middle of that I remembered my daughter mentioning that she planned to go shopping today with a friend. On a bit of impulse I gave her a call and asked if the two of them might want to stop by for lunch. She sounded a little hesitant at first, probably because I was pushing for a quick answer since lunchtime was fast approaching and I needed a little time to pull things together.
About a half hour later she called back and said they’d be arriving around 11:15.
That was all the encouragement I needed.
The bread came out of the oven just in time, the soup I had made a couple days earlier went on the stove to warm, and before long grilled cheese sandwiches were sizzling in the pan — made with the bread I baked yesterday.
We sat down together and enjoyed a simple lunch of soup and sandwiches. Afterward I brought out a few of the pastries I had been working on recently.
As they were getting ready to leave, my daughter’s friend ended up leaving with a small “to-go” bag containing a grilled cheese sandwich, a generous piece of stromboli, and a bear claw I pulled from the freezer.
She was thrilled.
She mentioned that she works afternoons and often doesn’t get home until well after dinner time, and by then she usually isn’t motivated enough to cook. During lunch she asked if I cook often. I laughed and told her I probably cook far too much.
When she asked what I do with all the food, I told her the truth: most of it gets given away to family and friends. Apparently that sounded like a pretty good arrangement to her, because she quickly asked what she needed to do to get on that list.
Now the dishwasher is loaded, the kitchen is back in order, and the house is quiet again.
It seems like the perfect moment to sit down and make a few notes for the blog. After a morning that began with such a beautiful sunrise and carried into an unexpected lunch with good company, it feels like one of those small days worth remembering.
And really, there’s no time like the present, now is there?
March 14, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
The day began quietly, but with a promise I could see almost immediately through the patio doors. The darkness of night was already beginning to fade, slowly giving way to that familiar deep blue that precedes sunrise. Within moments the horizon began to glow with a pale orange light, and just like that my mood lifted.
It always amazes me how quickly the simple appearance of morning light can change my entire outlook. If there were some way to bottle that feeling and keep it nearby for the gray mornings, I surely would.
While working on my first cup of coffee I scanned the room and noticed the four pastries I had prepared the night before using leftover laminated dough that had been slowly working its magic in the refrigerator for the past couple of days. Seeing them sitting there almost felt like a small reward waiting for the day to properly begin.
As I stood watching the sunrise develop, the colors shifted almost continuously. The pale orange along the horizon gradually widened while the sky above transitioned into a soft aquamarine before deepening into darker blues overhead. The whole scene was changing in subtle increments that made it difficult to look away.
Opening the patio door for a better look brought an unexpected bonus. Just above the horizon, shining brightly against the darkening sky, was a slender crescent moon. It was one of those small surprises nature occasionally delivers when you’re paying attention. The contrast between the moon and the growing light of dawn was beautiful.
That quiet little moon hanging there while the horizon brightens makes the scene feel reflective, almost contemplative.
Inside, the sunlight soon began filling the house. A small suncatcher hanging in the window caught my attention, and with the sunrise behind it I couldn’t resist taking a photograph.
Moments like that often feel as though they present themselves intentionally, as if asking to be noticed.
The morning light continued to spill across the dining room table where coffee, fresh bread, and pastries were waiting. Considering the sweetness the morning had already provided for the soul, it seemed only reasonable to provide a bit of sweetness for the body as well.
Later in the morning I began working on another batch of laminated pastry dough. The butter block and dough came together exactly as hoped and were placed in the refrigerator to chill before beginning the folding process. One small technique I’ve adopted recently continues to prove itself useful: forming the butter block inside a one-gallon zip-top bag. The bag keeps the butter from sticking to the rolling pin and naturally forms it into an even rectangle. When it’s time to assemble the dough, I simply cut the bag open, place the butter onto the dough, peel away the plastic, and begin folding. It’s simple, clean, and works remarkably well.
Much to my delight the dough handled beautifully during the first lamination. It rolled out smoothly, felt silky to the touch, and didn’t stick to the work surface or the rolling pin. When dough behaves like that it feels as though the entire process is cooperating with you rather than fighting against you.
Once the first fold was complete the dough returned to the refrigerator for another rest.
By early afternoon the sun was still shining and the weather had become too pleasant to ignore. Coffee in hand, I stepped out onto the deck to take in the view across the backyard. The garden area down below seemed to be quietly reminding me that the growing season is approaching and that soon enough it will be time to begin working the earth again.
You can almost feel the season turning the corner in this scene.
I replied silently that I’m fully aware of its expectations, but it’s still just a bit too cold for this old body to spend much time digging in the earth. Soon enough the raised beds will need turning and a few soil amendments added. After that I’ll begin starting seedlings in the small light box I built that’s currently waiting in the garage.
While standing on the deck I also noticed evidence of the strong winds that passed through yesterday and last night. My grill, which is no small piece of equipment, had been pushed nearly eight feet from its original position. Thankfully the deck railing prevented it from going any farther.
At the moment the laminated dough is resting comfortably in the refrigerator awaiting its next set of folds. The morning delivered a remarkable sunrise, the baking has progressed smoothly, and the day itself continues to feel calm and generous.
Some days simply unfold that way, and when they do it’s best to appreciate every bit of them.
Late Evening Notes — The Pastries
As the laminated dough completed its final resting period in the refrigerator, I rolled it out once again and cut it into long strips. Each strip measured roughly an inch and a half wide and about ten inches long.
At that point I decided to experiment just a little.
Using a small bowl of almond paste filling I brushed a thin layer across the surface of each strip. After that I added small dabs of mixed berry fruit spread along the length of the dough. It was somewhat of an afterthought, but one that seemed promising enough to try.
Once the filling was in place, each strip was rolled into a loose spiral and placed into muffin tins to proof.
After about an hour resting in the warmth of the oven they puffed up nicely and were ready for baking.
When the pastries finally came out of the oven they looked good, though I immediately began thinking about a few adjustments for next time. The strips were perhaps a little narrow and could probably benefit from being closer to two inches wide and possibly longer so they more fully fill the muffin tins and allow the pastries to bloom upward more dramatically.
Even so, the results were extremely satisfying.
The outside developed a delicate crispness while the inside remained tender and layered, the laminated sheets separating into flaky folds that practically melted with each bite.
The almond paste provided a gentle richness and the berry filling added just enough brightness to balance everything beautifully.
What began as a simple experiment turned out to be a surprisingly delightful combination. There are still a few shaping ideas I’d like to explore with the remaining dough tomorrow, but for tonight the house smells wonderfully of butter, pastry, and caramelized sugar.
Not a bad way to end the day.
Fran would be proud...
March 15, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
It’s 7:32 on Sunday morning and even though I’m up and about with my first cup of coffee in hand, I have to admit I’m feeling a bit weary.
Outside the temperature sits at forty-two degrees. A thick blanket of cloud cover stretches across the entire sky overhead, though along the distant horizon the faintest hint of color suggests the sun is trying to make an appearance. The National Weather Service has already issued a severe weather advisory for later today into tomorrow morning, warning of high winds with gusts that could reach fifty miles an hour.
For the moment, however, the world outside my patio doors is quiet.
The sky above looks heavy and textured, a patchwork of clouds that seem determined to guard the morning light. Still, a narrow ribbon of gold has begun forming just above the tree line, suggesting the sun is there somewhere, working patiently behind the scenes.
So I sit here at the dining room table watching the familiar view unfold. The two tall locust trees stand silhouetted against the slowly brightening sky like old companions who have seen this ritual many times before. They don’t seem bothered by the clouds or the forecast or the stubbornness of the sun.
They simply stand there.
By 7:58 the sky has grown considerably brighter, but the clouds remain unwilling to move aside. The sun continues its quiet struggle somewhere behind them, diffused now into a soft glow that spreads gently across the horizon.
And still I sit.
Part of me begins to grow anxious, feeling as though waiting here in anticipation might be wasting precious time. There are always things to do, tasks waiting somewhere in the background of the day. The mind begins to whisper that perhaps it’s time to get up, move along, and start doing something productive.
Yet something keeps me in the chair.
Perhaps it’s the quiet of the moment. Perhaps it’s the simple comfort of warm coffee in hand. Or perhaps it’s the small hope that the clouds might suddenly shift and reveal something extraordinary.
But even if they don’t, the truth is that mornings like this still offer something worthwhile.
Not every sunrise bursts into brilliant color or dramatic light. Some arrive slowly, gently, almost reluctantly. They unfold in softer tones, asking nothing more of us than patience, and maybe that’s the lesson this morning had waiting for me.
Sometimes the beauty of a new day isn’t found in a spectacular display across the sky.
Sometimes it’s simply found in sitting quietly, watching the world wake up, and allowing the moment to unfold in its own time
Morning Brew & Reflections — (continued)
By 8:06 the waiting was over. Not because the clouds had finally surrendered to the sun, but because I had finally surrendered to the day.
The sky had grown brighter, yet the clouds remained stubbornly in place, holding their ground as if they had no intention of allowing even a respectable glimpse of sunrise. After sitting there for a while longer staring toward the horizon, I finally stood up, stepped into the kitchen, and pulled the second third of the laminated dough from the refrigerator, so it could begin warming slightly before the next round of rolling and shaping.
Sometimes the day simply tells you it’s time to move along.
My goal now is to finish working through the remainder of the laminated pastry dough before noon. If all goes according to plan, I’d like to bring a few samples over to my sister-in-law later today along with the birthday present I have for her. Her birthday was this past Friday, and although I did call and send her a text to wish her a happy birthday, I didn’t get a chance to see her.
During that call she mentioned that we should go out for lunch or brunch sometime soon.
That suggestion gave me a pretty good chuckle because it reminded me of something that happened just a few weeks ago on my own birthday back on January 31.
She had called that morning to wish me a happy birthday and insisted that we go out for brunch. I told her it really wasn’t necessary, truthfully I wasn’t in much of a celebratory mood, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Eventually I gave in and we agreed on a day to go.
When we got there they were serving a breakfast buffet, which immediately caught my attention. If I’m going somewhere for a buffet, I figure I might as well make the most of it. My sister-in-law said she’d have the buffet as well, although she mentioned she really wasn’t very hungry.
As it turned out, she wasn’t kidding.
She had one biscuit with a little sausage gravy on top of it and that was about the extent of her meal. Meanwhile, I made several trips back and forth to the buffet, filling my plate each time with the determination of someone who fully intended to make the best of a free breakfast...
We sat there for quite a while afterward talking, most of the conversation eventually turning to Fran, remembering her, laughing about things she used to do, and quietly acknowledging how much we both miss her.
Eventually the waitress came by and said she’d take the bill whenever we were ready.
When we got up to leave I noticed my sister-in-law setting the bill down on the table as if she had no intention of picking it up. That immediately made me suspicious, so I grabbed the check and looked at her.
She looked right back at me and said, perfectly calmly,
“Okay… I’ll get the tip.”
That one left me a bit speechless.
I suppose in the end it really didn’t matter. The truth is the meal itself wasn’t the important part anyway. What mattered was sitting there for a while sharing memories, talking about Fran, and enjoying a little bit of time together.
Now, as the morning continues and the clouds still linger overhead, the kitchen is calling once again. There’s dough waiting on the counter, pastries yet to be shaped, and another small opportunity later today to share something homemade with family.
Not a bad way to spend a Sunday morning.
This morning’s pastry experiment continued shortly before eleven when I pulled the second third of the laminated dough from the refrigerator and rolled it into long strips about two inches wide and roughly an eighth of an inch thick.
With the dough laid out across the counter, the possibilities started running through my mind.
For the first set I spread a line of almond paste and dotted it with a few berries, then lightly scored the long edge of the strip. When rolled up, the scored edge opened slightly, creating what looked remarkably like the petals of a flower. It was one of those moments where you realize something simple can turn unexpectedly elegant.
For the next set I tried a slightly different approach. Thinly sliced apples were layered over almond paste along the length of the dough. Once rolled, the curved edges of the apples created the illusion of rose petals. Even before baking they already looked promising.
The final pair combined both ideas, almond paste, apples, and scored dough edges, rolled loosely and placed into the muffin tins where they began to resemble small pastry roses.
Somewhere in the middle of all that cutting, filling, and rolling, I noticed movement out in the backyard through the patio doors. A small group of turkeys had wandered across the hill, pecking around the grass as if conducting their own morning inspection of the property.
Unfortunately, my moment of wildlife observation coincided with a small lapse in kitchen judgment.
In an effort to soften a container of almond paste, I had placed the plastic jar in the microwave on the defrost cycle. While I was watching the turkeys, the microwave apparently decided to escalate matters considerably. When I opened the door, the container had collapsed into a sad little molten sculpture.
Considering the price of almond paste these days, I salvaged every bit I possibly could.
Had there been a mirror nearby, the scene might have revealed something resembling a St. Bernard enthusiastically cleaning out a mayonnaise jar.
Not my most dignified culinary moment, but certainly an efficient one.
Sunshine, Pastries, and a Birthday Visit
It’s 1:30 in the afternoon, and after a morning spent in the kitchen, the last batch of laminated pastries has finally come out of the oven. At the same time, the sky outside has decided to cooperate for a change. The clouds that dominated the early part of the day have begun to break apart, and sunlight is now pouring across the deck and through the patio doors.
While waiting for the final pastries to rise and bake, I took the opportunity to put together a rather generous bowl of Italian seafood pasta salad. Shrimp, crab, lobster bites, pasta, peppers, and a creamy dressing all came together rather nicely, and judging by the size of the bowl, there should be more than enough to share.
The pastries themselves turned out to be an interesting little experiment.
The ones on the left side of the muffin tray were made using the full twenty-inch strip of laminated dough. As it turns out, those are the ones that pleased me the most. Because the dough filled the entire muffin tin before baking, they rose beautifully and developed a rather impressive crown above the rim. Not only did they rise nicely, but they also created a pleasing, rustic flower-like shape on top.
The pastries in the center were filled with thinly sliced apples, a bit of cinnamon sugar, and almond paste. They rose well enough and filled the tins almost completely, but the additional weight and moisture from the apples seemed to limit the dramatic bloom the others achieved. Still, they look wonderful and I’m quite certain they’ll taste just as good.
The ones on the right were a bit of a learning experience. I shortened the length of the dough strips, assuming the filling would expand and help fill the space. Apparently, that assumption was a bit optimistic. They baked up just fine, but they didn’t quite reach the top of the muffin tins the way the longer strips did.
All in all, though, I’d call the morning a success.
Now comes the next part of the day.
I need to wrap my sister-in-law’s birthday present, gather up a few of the pastries along with some of that seafood pasta salad, a loaf of homemade bread, and make my way over to her house to wish her a happy birthday.
Sometimes the best part of cooking isn’t the baking itself. It’s having something good to bring along when you go visit someone you care about.
As I sit here now in the quiet of the family room, thinking back over the day, I can’t help but smile a little at how simple moments seem to find their way into something meaningful.
What started out as another morning in the kitchen, rolling dough, experimenting with pastries, watching turkeys wander across the hillside, slowly turned into an afternoon visit that probably meant more than I realized when I first packed that box.
There’s something comforting about bringing food to someone you care about. It’s never really just about the pastries or the bread. It’s about sharing a bit of your time, your effort, and perhaps a little piece of your heart along with it.
When my sister-in-law opened that small framed picture and I saw her eyes begin to fill, it reminded me once again how powerful memories can be. Some make us laugh, some make us cry, and some manage to do both at the same time.
Moments like that always bring Fran to mind.
She had a way of doing small thoughtful things for people, often quietly and without any expectation of recognition, simply because she knew it might brighten someone’s day.
In some small way, I suppose today was my attempt to carry forward a little of that same spirit. If a few pastries, a loaf of bread, and a visit over coffee managed to bring even a little warmth into someone else’s afternoon, then I’d say it was a day well spent.
By the end of the day the kitchen grows quiet again, the pastries are shared, and the memories settle in, leaving behind the comforting feeling that something simple and good found its way into the world.
And in moments like these, when kindness is shared and memories gently surface, I’m reminded once again that Fran’s presence still finds its way into the smallest corners of an ordinary day...
March 16, 2026
Snowfall, Pastries, and Unexpected Visitors
The day began long before the sun had a chance to show itself. I woke at 4:45 this morning and was up and moving by about 5:15, hoping that perhaps the sky might reward the early start with something worth watching through the patio doors. Instead, the clouds hung low and thick, a heavy blanket that left little hope for any kind of sunrise.
With the atmosphere changing so rapidly outside, I turned my attention back to the kitchen and to the laminated dough I had left from yesterday. The plan was simple enough: use what remained and experiment a little.
Earlier in the morning I had rolled the dough to about half the size I intended to finish with, then returned it to the refrigerator for fifteen minutes so it would stay properly chilled. While waiting, I prepared a compound butter made with fresh basil, dried oregano, and a bit of Parmesan cheese.
Once mixed into a smooth paste, I began cutting long strips of laminated dough.
At some point I noticed a spoon lying on the side of the cutting board. The rounded end reminded me of a flower petal, and before long curiosity took over. I flattened the spoon against the dough and began shaping several pastries using that simple form, hoping to create something resembling rose petals as the dough was rolled.
Three pastries were shaped that way. Another was prepared more traditionally, with cuts along the edge similar to the way a bear claw is formed.
They rose beautifully.
Unfortunately, that’s where things went a bit sideways.
After placing the pastries into the oven I made the mistake of sitting down in the recliner while waiting for them to bake. With such an early start to the day, fatigue caught up with me quickly. The next thing I knew the oven timer was sounding and I jumped up, realizing immediately that I had let them go a bit too long.
They were not ruined, but the outer layers had definitely pushed the limits of what I would consider acceptable. Disappointing, especially after the care that had gone into the preparation.
Trying to shake off the frustration, I turned on some mellow jazz, sat back in the recliner, and before long drifted off again, sleeping until nearly five o’clock in the afternoon.
When I finally woke up and cleared my head, I decided to run out to the market to pick up a few things, particularly more bread flour. With the colder weather returning, I have a feeling there will be some bread baking in the days ahead.
When I left the house a light mist was falling.
By the time I returned, the entire yard was turning white.
The temperature had dropped below freezing and snow was coming down steadily. Considering we’ve had several recent days pushing into the 60s and even near 70 degrees, the sudden shift felt almost surreal.
Back inside, I deboned a rotisserie chicken I had picked up at the store.
Part of it became dinner, while the bones went into a pot with some broth and water to simmer into what will eventually become soup.
A little while later, while glancing out through the patio doors, I noticed movement in the field behind the house. At first it was just two deer grazing.
Then several more appeared.
By the time I grabbed my phone to take a few pictures they were already moving toward the road and into the neighbor’s yard. I managed to capture a few shots before they disappeared. Among them was a young buck, though I nearly missed him while fumbling with the camera settings.
About ten minutes later something moved again near the street side of the house.
The same group had circled around and came running back across the yard, passing within about ten feet of the back door before disappearing again. They moved so quickly there was no chance of photographing them that time, but it was still enjoyable to watch.
Seeing deer here is nothing unusual. In fact, they pass through this area so regularly that at certain times of the year you can almost set your watch by them.
My yard seems to sit right along one of their natural travel routes.
There have even been occasions when I stepped outside near dusk to take out the trash and had deer run within just a few feet of me. Each time it happens it startles me enough to make sure there hasn’t been a laundry emergency.
Years ago Fran and I used to notice one particular doe that traveled with the herd. She had a badly injured rear leg, likely from a trap or perhaps a vehicle, but she survived and continued passing through the yard for several years.
Fran always felt sorry for her and would ask if there was anything that could be done. I would tell her I wished there was, but nature usually handles those things in its own way.
Eventually we stopped seeing her, though the memory of that deer stayed with us.
Tonight, as the snow continued to fall and the deer moved quietly across the field, I was reminded again how often life outside these windows follows its own quiet rhythms, crossing the same paths year after year while we watch from the warmth of the house.
For now, the snow is still falling and the broth is simmering on the stove.
It seems like a good evening to head downstairs, sit at the desk in the family room, and write a few notes about the day before turning in.
March 17, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
The Quiet Portal of Winter
This Tuesday morning arrived like an unexpected page from mid-winter, even though the calendar insists that spring is just around the corner.
When I first looked outside through the back door, the world had changed overnight. Snow rested gently across the deck rails, the table, the hillside, and the bare branches of the trees beyond the yard. Everything seemed softened and hushed, as if the earth had quietly wrapped itself in a white blanket during the night.
It is 21 degrees this morning, though the feels like is at closer to 8 degrees, with the wind. The forecast says the temperature will struggle to reach 28 today, with clouds hanging overhead and the possibility of more snow later this afternoon.
There was a time in my life when mornings like this filled me with excitement. Back then, snow meant skis, mountains, and the anticipation of spending the day carving down slopes somewhere in the Pocono Mountains. Living near several ski resorts made winter feel less like a season to endure and more like an invitation to adventure.
Those days are long behind me now.
These days, the thought of snow tends to feel more inconvenient than exciting. Yet when I can remain inside, warm with a cup of coffee in my hands, I still find a certain beauty in it. Snow has a way of quieting the world. It softens edges, muffles sound, and gives the landscape the appearance of starting fresh again.
Yesterday evening when I returned home from the market, the first flakes had already begun to fall. Earlier in the day there had only been a light mist, nothing that suggested what was coming, but by the time I arrived home, around six o’clock, the rain had quietly turned to snow, and the snow began to accumulate with surprising speed.
What made it even stranger was remembering the morning before. When I first stepped outside yesterday morning, the air was mild enough that I sat out on the porch wearing only a light jacket. Temperatures were in the 50s, and the day felt almost like early spring.
Yet by nightfall winter had returned.
This morning, as I sit here with my coffee, the sky above the hillside is filled with thick drifting clouds. Patches of pale blue break through here and there, casting a faint light over the valley beyond the yard.
Standing there against that sky are the tall vine-covered trees I photographed this morning. Their dark silhouettes reach upward through the clouds like quiet figures standing watch over the land below.
Scenes like this sometimes bring my thoughts back to that familiar place between the locust trees beyond the yard, the place I often call the portal.
It is strange how certain places begin to hold meaning over time.
Years ago, after my mother passed away, I remember sitting on the porch one morning and noticing what appeared to be the faint outline of a face in the branches between those trees. It was probably nothing more than the mind recognizing patterns where none truly existed.
But after Fran passed away, something changed.
Slowly, that familiar outline seemed to appear again, only clearer this time, more defined in the spaces between the branches and leaves. I know perfectly well that it is most likely nothing more than memory and imagination working together.
Yet on mornings like this, when the world is quiet and the snow has softened everything around it, it sometimes feels as though the boundary between memory and presence becomes a little thinner.
Perhaps it is simply the heart remembering what it once held. Perhaps it is love finding small ways to remind us that it has not entirely gone.
The forecast says the coming days will warm quickly. Temperatures should climb back into the 50's by Thursday and Friday, into the 60s on Saturday, and perhaps even close to 70 by Sunday. Along with that warmth will come clouds and rain, because weather, much like life, rarely gives us everything at once.
But for this morning, at least, winter has returned just long enough to leave its quiet mark.
As I sit here watching the snow resting on the hillside and the tall trees standing against the sky, I cannot help but feel that sometimes the most ordinary mornings are the ones that quietly remind us how closely the past still walks beside us.
So I will finish my coffee, sit here a little while longer, and watch the clouds drift slowly over the valley.
And no doubt, if the light falls just right between the trees, I will see that familiar outline again.
Morning Brew & Reflections
Snow, Sunlight, and the Quiet Work of the Day
When I woke this morning, the world outside my patio doors had returned to something I hadn’t expected to see again so late in the season, a winter landscape.
Sometime during the night a fresh snowfall had settled across the hillside behind the house, covering the deck, the yard, and the distant treeline in a clean, undisturbed blanket of white. It was one of those mornings that looked almost peaceful enough to forget how cold it truly was.
The temperature hovered somewhere in the low twenties, though the wind made it feel even sharper than that. Years ago, a morning like this would have stirred a completely different reaction from me. Living here in the Pocono Mountains, snowfall meant one thing, a good chance I’d be standing on a mountain somewhere before the day was over.
Back then, snow was an invitation.
Skis in the car, boots ready by the door, the promise of fresh powder waiting somewhere up the road.
These days, the thought of snow brings a different kind of reaction. I no longer feel the urge to chase it down a mountainside. Instead, I find myself appreciating it from a distance, through the glass of the patio doors, wrapped in the warmth of the house.
Time has a way of reshaping the way we greet the seasons.
By mid-morning the clouds began to loosen their hold on the sky. Around 10:17, the sunlight finally broke through, and when it did it seemed to find its way exactly where it needed to be.
Directly above the portal.
Those two tall locust trees beyond the deck have come to mean something more than I could have ever imagined, when I first noticed them years ago. Their branches twist upward together like two figures reaching toward the sky, and between them exists a space that often feels like a doorway between worlds.
When the sun centers itself above that opening, something about the moment feels almost intentional.
This morning was one of those times.
A soft cloud drifted across the sun just long enough to create a glowing halo above the trees. Their dark silhouettes stood against the bright sky while the snow below reflected the light upward, giving everything a quiet brilliance.
For a few moments the entire scene seemed to pause.
I stepped outside briefly to capture a few photographs, but the cold quickly reminded me that winter still had plenty of strength left in it. The wind pushed through my coat and across my face with a bite that made the decision to retreat indoors an easy one.
Still, those few seconds were enough.
Standing there looking at those trees, it’s impossible not to feel the quiet presence that space has come to hold for me. It was sometime after my mother passed away that I first noticed something unusual about that opening between the branches, a shape that almost resembled a portrait hidden within the canopy.
When Fran passed last July, that image slowly seemed to change.
What I see there now feels different, clearer somehow, more familiar. Perhaps it’s only the mind filling in shapes where none truly exist. Or perhaps love simply leaves traces in places we visit often enough.
Either way, when the sunlight settles above those trees just right, I can’t help but feel that the moment carries something beyond what the eyes alone can explain.
After stepping back inside, the warmth of the kitchen wrapped around me like a welcome.
Cold mornings have a way of stirring certain instincts, and today one thought came immediately to mind.
Soup.
Yesterday’s trip to the market had unknowingly prepared the way. The rotisserie chicken I picked up had already served its purpose at dinner, but afterward the bones found their way into a pot where they slowly transformed into a rich bone broth through the evening.
That broth now sat ready in the refrigerator, waiting for the next chapter.
So this morning I gathered what vegetables happened to be on hand — carrots, celery, onions, broccoli, and a bit of zucchini — and added them to a pot along with that broth.
Nothing elaborate. Just the simple comfort of letting a pot simmer while the world outside remains cold and bright.
As the vegetables began to soften and the aromas slowly filled the kitchen, the house took on that quiet warmth that only homemade soup seems to bring. Outside, the sun continued climbing through the sky, its light stretching long shadows from the deck railing across the fresh snow.
Inside, the pot bubbled gently on the stove.
Later I’ll decide whether to add rice or pasta. With broccoli playing such a strong role in the pot today, rice feels like the natural choice. It will give the soup a little more body without taking anything away from the vegetables themselves.
But that choice can wait.
For now, the sun continues shining above the portal, the snow glows beneath the winter light, and a warm pot of soup quietly simmers in the kitchen.
Somewhere in that simple balance between cold air and warm broth, between memory and the present moment, the day finds its gentle rhythm.
Sometimes that’s all a morning needs to be.
March 18,2026
The Quiet Work of a Day
It’s nearing 9 PM now, and for the first time since early this morning, I’ve found a moment to sit still long enough to gather the pieces of the day and lay them out in some kind of order.
The morning began not with movement, but with thought.
Conversations, some internal, some shared, centered around health, patience, and the slow-moving machinery of the medical world. Not always comforting, but necessary. Alongside that was a different kind of consideration, one that carried a bit more light with it: the possibility of turning these daily reflections, these quiet entries, into something more permanent… a memoir of sorts.
The idea that my words, born out of love, loss, and the attempt to keep moving forward, might one day reach someone else standing in a similar place… that thought stayed with me.
Before venturing out I also prepared another triple batch of bread dough. No doubt that will become an integral part of tomorrow's activity.
By midday, I stepped out into the world.
A stop at the Italian market yielded simple things, olive oil, cold cuts on sale, walnuts for the Easter nut rolls that are already beginning to take shape in my mind. There’s comfort in tradition, even in its earliest stages.
From there, another stop… frames this time. A few photographs of Fran have been waiting patiently, and it felt like the right moment to give them a more permanent place within the china cabinet memorial. Not an ending, just another way of keeping her presence close.
On the way home, fresh flowers.
The ones on the memorial had begun to fade, and replacing them felt less like a task and more like a quiet conversation, one that doesn’t require words.
Back home, the rhythm shifted again.
A phone call to my son-in-law, an open invitation: soup from yesterday, cold cuts from the market, a few pastries left from the recent baking spree. Food has always been my way of reaching out, of saying “come by” without needing to say much more.
Later, the kitchen called once again.
Peppers, mushrooms, onions, garlic, tomatoes, chopped and brought together into a roasted mixture I’ve come to enjoy over time. There’s something steadying about that process. Familiar motions. Predictable outcomes. A small sense of control in a world that doesn’t always offer much of it.
After finishing the prep for the roasted peppers I checked my messages and noticed I had two recents that I had not yet read. One from Bob, who is currently in England with his entire family on holiday. the fact that he takes time, even while on holiday to check in on me, never ceases to amaze. I actually got quite a chuckle out of a message he sent to me yesterday, that included a picture of Harrods bakery, with a subtitle that read, "Looks like Tony K's bakery."
I also had a message from Fran's cousin Frank, who stayed at our home for a while, back when his wife passed away. He mentioned he was going to Florida for a week and that he might stop back to see me when he returns.
And then… stillness.
The recliner, a bit of television, and before I knew it, sleep. An hour and a half gone in what felt like minutes. Perhaps my body deciding for me what I hadn’t yet admitted, I was tired.
Now, the day closes as quietly as it began.
No grand events. No defining moments.
Just a series of small, meaningful acts:
remembering, preparing, sharing, reflecting.
And sometimes, in the quiet honesty of it all… that’s more than enough.
March 19, 2026
“Between the Gray and the Light”
Fran,
This morning didn’t begin the way most do.
I woke before dawn, just briefly, called out of sleep by the usual things, a quiet interruption, a cramp in my foot that needed a few steps to ease. For a moment, I thought the day had already begun.
But instead… I went back.
I slipped beneath the covers again, not expecting much, just a few minutes, maybe a half hour at most.
And somehow, I was given three more hours.
Three hours of deep, uninterrupted rest… the kind that doesn’t come around often anymore.
When I finally woke again, it was 8:30.
And I have to tell you… I felt different.
Not perfect there’s still that discomfort, that stubborn reminder when I try to relieve myself after several hours of not doing so, but beneath it, there was something else.
A sense of being restored.
As if, for just a little while, everything settled into place.
I stood in the kitchen and looked out through the patio doors. The sky was nothing but gray, thick, unmoving, almost like it had no intention of changing.
But I’ve learned something about days like this.
They don’t always stay that way.
The forecast says the sun will find its way through around 11… and linger until the evening. and I believe it. Not just because it’s predicted, but because I’ve seen it happen before.
Light has a way of showing up… even when it feels delayed.
I’ll be working with the dough this morning, the one I made yesterday. Dividing it, shaping it, letting it rest again before it meets the heat of the oven.
You always loved when the house filled with that smell.
And today… I’ll be doing something else too.
I picked up some frames yesterday. I’m going to print a few of your photos and place them on the china cabinet, right there beside the flowers and candles.
It feels like the right place.
A small act… but not a small moment.
Because each photo isn’t just an image, it’s a presence. A continuation. A way of keeping you near in the spaces where life continues to unfold.
So today begins slowly… a little softer than most.
Because you are.
In the quiet.
In the rhythm of the day.
In the light that hasn’t quite arrived yet… but I know will.
Always, Me
Between What Was, What Is… and What Remains
Some mornings don’t begin with intention… they begin with surrender.
Sometime around 5 AM, I found myself awake, just long enough to tend to the quiet necessities of the body, before making a decision that, for me, is almost unheard of… I went back to bed.
I didn’t expect to stay. Fifteen minutes… maybe thirty at most.
Instead, I drifted.
When I opened my eyes again, more than three hours had passed, as if time itself had decided I needed a little more grace than usual.
When I finally rose, the world outside mirrored something familiar, gray, still, uncertain. A sky without promise. A morning without direction.
But as the hours passed, something subtle began to change. Not all at once… not dramatically…just a soft persistence of light pressing through.
I’ve come to understand…that’s often how healing works.
The day began with a search.
Photographs, moments frozen in time that I was certain I knew the location of. Memories I could almost feel in my hands… yet couldn’t quite reach. What should have been simple became frustrating. Technology faltered. Patience thinned, and somewhere in that quiet frustration… I felt it again.
That longing.
That desire not just to find the photographs…but to somehow touch the moments they hold.
Moments with Fran.
So I stepped away.
Back into the kitchen…back into something living… something responsive.
Flour, water, time, and care.
Three loaves of bread began their slow transformation, each one shaped by hand, each one carrying its own quiet personality.
There’s something deeply grounding about working dough… something almost sacred in the rhythm of it.
You guide it… but it also guides you, and in that exchange… the noise fades.
By midafternoon, the first loaf emerged, warm, golden, alive with texture and possibility. The second followed with a bit more refinement, as if the process itself had settled into understanding.
Between loaves, hunger whispered.
A simple bowl of my “Sunceri legendary” peppers… a few corn chips… nothing elaborate, nothing planned. Just enough to sustain the moment. Just enough to continue.
And then… the third loaf.
By that point, the rhythm had taken hold. There was no rush… no pressure… just the quiet satisfaction of continuing something already in motion. When it was done, I allowed myself a moment to sit.
Just a moment.
The recliner welcomed me… the news murmured in the background… and within minutes, I was asleep. Not by choice… but by necessity.
Another hour… maybe more… given back to me in the form of rest. As if the day itself was saying, “Slow down… you don’t have to carry everything at once.”
Evening brought me full circle.
Back to the photographs. Back to Fran.
This time, with clearer eyes… steadier hands.
Two frames now sit where they belong.
One, her smile, warm and unmistakably her. A moment from this world, captured in a way that still feels alive.
The other, something different. Not memory… but meaning. An image of her as I now hold her in my heart, lifted, radiant, beyond the weight of all she endured. Not gone… just changed.
Together, they speak in a language that doesn’t need words. There are more to come. Larger pieces… deeper moments… more time required.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I sit with what was done.
Three loaves of bread cooling quietly on the table, each one a small act of creation.
Two framed pieces resting gently at her memorial, each one a bridge between then and now, and somewhere in between… a few unexpected hours of rest.
(Right)Now you walk with me in ways I cannot see… but always feel.
It wasn’t a perfect day.
But it was a full one.
And in its own quiet way…it was enough.
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