Sonja likes it when she opens the front door and is greeted by our slobbering dog, like she always is, and the smell of something cooking. If I do not cook anything the house smells like fucking beer.
Tonight I made cranberry muffins. I like cooking stuff that I have seen grown in sight of where I have walked my dog. If you have ever watched cranberries being harvested (usually in the pouring rain) you can appreciate the bone-chilling hard labour that gets them into your muffin pans. The spelt flakes that went into the recipe came from a farm close to here too.
When Sonja came home from work she said, "Mmmm, what are you cooking?" When I told her she asked, "Do we have any cranberry wine to go with the muffins?"
"Does beer grow on trees?" I asked, before I reached into the bottom of the fridge for the bottle of the Fort Winery's white cranberry.