This morning Sonja and I had some traditional Irish oatmeal for breakfast. I spotted a tin of the stuff on a high shelf in the market. I could have bought a six pack for the price I paid for the tin so I was hoping they would be something good.
The oats in the tin turned out to be about the size of a large grain of sand. Until the moment I opened the tin I thought oats fell off the plant already rolled like a joint prepared for a sure to be hungover morning. Farm boy I am not.
It takes more than half an hour to cook the little stone like grain. But the wait was worth it. Sonja said, "Those Irish fuckers can sure make a mean porridge! I thought all they were any good at was raising race horses, making beer and kicking English ass."
The predicted storm has been slow to arrive so I took the Hammer for a walk in the woods after we ate. Sonja is happy to have us out of the house so she can better get in the reading she needs done for work related projects. The land was littered with branches and trees liberated from the sky and the Earth during last week's storm. There are lots and lots of mushrooms poking through the sogginess. Too bad there were no good ones.
I watched the sky as the Hammer revved her engine on the leafy, obstacle strewn trail. The sweaty work sock grey cup sky was going by at a dangerous speed. It made me feel stoned looking up there. It felt good.