I savor the quiet moments as though they are chocolates, the girls are busy with the gentle play associated with well-behaved girls. The soft rise and fall of a childish voice in an imaginary conversation floats down the hall to my ears, joined by a single thread of a popular melody repeated without the accompaniment of guitar, bass, and drums.
I don't want this quiet moment to end, but a bottle of wine is calling my name. It stood opened and re-corked too long to drink and it begs to be simmered with the beef, onion, and celery I purchased to go with it. The wine is whispering to me about the joys of creating that which is to be spooned up with a thick slice of bread rather than a book to be read. Only because I get hungry now and then do I respond to the call of the kitchen.
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