Standing in the kitchen, mixing up a batch of dough. My heart warmed as I read the recipe written by the hand of a dear friend. I could hear her gentle voice speaking in her soft way, always positive, always encouraging. There are those friends that speak to you and reach all the way to your soul, tearing away any veil and requiring honesty, sincerity. It's the friend that listens as much as she speaks. The one that listens - and hears.
The dough that I mixed up is rising under a towel outside in the sunshine. I'm making three pizzas for dinner. One will be pepperoni, one will be ground beef/tomato/fresh pineapple, and one will be a vegetarian (spinach, zucchini, orange bell pepper, onion, garlic, roma tomato, and garlic/dill cheese curds that I picked up at the farmer's market).
Ah, the farmer's market. We have a weekly market here in town during the spring and summer. Yesterday I met with a friend for frozen yogurt then we perused the market for a bit. I like how it grows each week, more vendors, more variety of produce. And I like an excuse to hang out with a friend on a sunny afternoon.
I am making friends with the idea that I may never have pretty nails. My hands are always submerged in soapy water, or pulling weeds, or digging. I hold my chickens and I cook. And when I get nervous I pick at my fingers. All these factors leave my hands bedraggled. Honestly, I don't mind too much the dirt under my nails because the digging in the dirt is so fun. And I saw silver haired woman, comfortable in her skin, and her hands looked just like mine. Dirt and work had left their mark. And I suppose it's ok that I can't have pretty nails, as long as I can still knead bread dough and pull dandelions for my chicks and wash up a sink of dirty dishes.