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Soupy, or, Your Title Here

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Reflective, tired

Occasionally, I wish Bradbury had written a Dandelion Wine for Spring. This weekend, in fact, was perfect for it, 70-something, breezy, sunny, glory (all full of glory / low, low, low). I skated much of my afternoon away yesterday, and didn't break my board or my body. Delightful, delicious. Exquisite.

Sun yesterday, with the overcast gathering in on the breezes today, from a bright morning to windy and grey, but warm, in the afternoon. I'm trying to find something more profound to say, because it doesn't seem like I'm saying anything more than "It was Spring", but I think that's enough.

Now that the breezes have turned to wind, and the front is moving in, its prelude having passed, but the nasty stuff just off to the West, I'm happy I started making soup for no good reason (other than having celery stems and leaves I couldn't bear to ditch), through the day. Even if it did turn out too peppery. *shrug* De gustabus non disputandum, as the saying goes.

And now the wind is here. The front. Time for soup, and the remainders of coffee, and shutting down things not to be zapped by the storm. Fare thee well, then, until next time, when shall we three, etc., etc.


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