A recipe that makes me happy
an ode to gentle things
I’ve always liked gentle things. Like
Those fuzzy blankets that change from light to dark when you run your hand over them.
Socks that warm your feet while you sleep and quiet your steps in the early morning.
Cups of tea that stay, as if by magic, at the perfect temperature.
“The Great British Bakeoff” with its kind contestants, chirping birds, light and bouncy music, and soft voices speaking in British accents.
“Downton Abbey” with its unkind characters, chirping birds, dark and dramatic music, and voices speaking in British accents.
Basically anything British — audiobooks, “Great British Bakeoff,” “Sanditon,” Kensington, pretty much any ‘ton.’
Taking the non-highway way home past land where the light drifts through trees like sand through your fingers and newborn foals graze by narrow, gurgling creeks.
Watching different colored ingredients blend together in a pot.
I love gentle things.
I think I’ve always loved gentle things. For as long as I can remember, loud sounds and voices have made me jump. People ask me daily to repeat myself, as I often talk much too quietly to be heard.
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