It was one long weekend which means my son and I were quite busy with small household jobs that need attention. Good thing yesterday was a holiday too. Gardening is such a rewarding but somewhat tedious job. Re-potting, trimming the carabao grass, removing weeds from our peanut grass, you name it, we’ve done them all through the weekend.
Anyway, I guess it is time to reward myself by relaxing a bit, finishing another book by Anita Shreve and checking our cupboards for grocery items that we have missed buying on our quick trip to the supermarket a few days ago. And it is time to reward the senses and satisfy the palate so to speak. I haven’t baked anything for more than a month I guess. I was so lazy to prepare elaborate meals and desserts because of the heat. Several days here still register a hot 35°C. So I made three batches of Raising Oatmeal Cookies (all of 24 large pieces), good enough for several days for my son to munch on
Yeay, even without cinnamon and nuts, this came out so yummy and chewy. How I wish my daughter lives near enough so I can share with her some of these cookies.
For years, I used to blog about month endings and beginnings but I’ve missed blogging on this one. The month of May aside from December is one of my favorite months . It’s that month between the vapid heat of the summer and the rainy season. May is the month of flowers, hence, I am documenting all the blooms in my garden now. And May is the month of Mama Mary. Yesterday was our village fiesta too. Although we don’t celebrate it as festive as those we have in the province, it is still lovely to see and listen to the sound of a band playing so early in the morning. And aside from the morning mass in honor of St. Joseph the Worker, there was a short procession around the village.
Hopefully in the next few days, I could start reading books which were put in the back shelves. I miss reading Mary Oliver, Marianne Williamson and Rod McKuen’s poetry. They are my night read before retiring. Sometimes, I dream of the lines which are etched in my soul and I wish I were a poet too who could express the words beautifully like a song that rhymes. I’ve followed a friend’s suggestion that I have a notebook anywhere I go but then the words sometimes come at those inopportune moments – while loading the washing machine, feeding the dogs or drenching our parched carabao grass. Why is it that one’s mind becomes pregnant with all these imaginings when it is so inconvenient to hold a pen and write?