When I make the effort to smile, to grin broadly, while I shave, I find I cut myself much less often.
You can draw any conclusion you like from that; or none at all, hoping, perhaps, instead, that a man who simpers at himself in the mirror deserves to have his throat cut.
Waking up this Sunday morning I immediately thought about baking and/or cooking something to serve to my neighbors here in Valley Villa Apartments. I often have such thoughts upon awaking. And I often act on them. But this morning as I stretched and yawned like a cat, turning over on my left side to caress my new bride, I felt a distinct distaste for the hurly-burly involved in making a big meal to serve out our front door or as a Potlatch in the Community Room.
(As I write this Amy is already in the kitchen making pear butter to give away to our neighbors after church.)
Then a vagrant yet pleasant thought drifted into my unfurnished head. Why not make something . . . not to portion out as servings, but as a whole casserole meal to give away to some couple or family at church this morning? I am intrigued by this idea. What will be the reaction when Amy and I approach a couple at church after Sacrament Meeting, to offer them a pan of spaghetti casserole and a Tupperware container full of Amy's cookie crumble pudding? I will carefully note the reactions and duly report them back to you, faithful reader, at the end of this essay.
For I am now beginning a new phase in my writing. I am become another Montaigne -- writing reflective essays on my life and the life around me. This is as a result of the heightened state of aufklarung I enjoy as a newly-wed. A newly-wed who has just married the same woman he lost 26 years earlier.
Writing a slick limerick about such a subject just doesn't cut the mustard.
I can't think that my musings will be very profound or original. They will be rambling, anecdotal, and, for the most part, inconsequential. Which disclaimer, of course, is how all writers have fished for compliments down through the ages. But, somewhat like Montaigne, I feel so self-contained in my own happy contentment right now that I don't give a rat's patootie as to the opinion of others who may read this.
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As we smoothed ourselves down for church, it came to me that the casserole and pudding should be given to the ward clerks, secretaries, and the Bishopric. With Tithing Settlement in full swing, this is a busy time for them -- I doubt they get home for Sunday dinner.
So that's what we did. I have no idea if any of it has been or will be eaten -- but there it sits in the clerk's office; a thank-offering for those who toil long hours over church membership, finances, and godly administration.
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We have such a very small kitchen that both of us cannot be working in it at the same time. Only when doing dishes can we companionably stand side-by-side washing and drying.
Walking home from choir practice at church this afternoon I spotted one lorn red rose about to unfold, surrounded by a herd of rose hips, in the front yard of a staid brick house. Reaching through the mesh fence, I gave the stem a violent tug, nearly uprooting the entire bush. But I got the rose. And I gave it to Amy.
The last rose of summer. How corny can you get?
