kitchen zen

The pumpkin sputters, hissing onto my hand. I suck at the burn and then stir in the lime juice, adjust the rice.

Brighid’s kitchen candle burns, merry and cherry-red in its square of glass.

I usually sing scales as I cook, followed by arias. The cat uncurls a white paw on the red couch cover. The curry wreathes the white-walled kitchen in warm scent.

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About whitecatgrove

The musings of a Druid priestess, singer, poet and musician in Upstate New York.
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