#186
Rain for days, or what seems like it. The house, normally dry to the point of a nosebleed, has the smell and feel of a wet dog because there is a slightly wet one around. We come back from a walk, he had business to attend to, and I try to dry him but he thinks it’s play and grabs the towel I stole from a resort hotel and drags it around and chews it to oblivion — extra energy on rainy days. Yesterday, hail, and I worried about the car, but realized that these new cars have bodies that ice jumps off of instead of dents. More coffee than is necessary, headaches, long naps because the pounding of the water on the skylight is loud and it covers the noises of the streets.
If you were to point out rainy parts of the country, this might not be the one that comes to mind. A local yesterday in line at the coop told me that this will help the fire season but not stop it, not cull it, not give us enough hope. I hear her words, and I feel tired already of fire season which isn’t even here yet. I tell her I might not be cut out for high desert living and she says it demands a lot.
Too much is demanding a lot at the moment, and when I get home I turn on the oven and bake a decadent frozen pizza (made in Italy) with burrata and pesto, to which I add shaved Jimmy Nardello peppers, grilled zucchini, and the last of the tin of anchovies because I love the saline bite they bring. The dog knows the word pizza and he knows he can lick the wood board after I finish the slices — the runny cheese and the crumbs of crust - it’s his world. I can’t remember how we got into this practice, a routine. Hopefully, there is something red open to drink - last evening it was a fine but cheap Chianti DOCG, from an unknown producer, but whose silkiness fit the cold rainy night and the fussed-up pizza.
I have piles of books I’m reading, but instead lay on the floor, the dog near me, and turn on the classical channel and wake up around 2 am, in the same spot and crawl into bed because the floor has gotten cold.
