sourdough toast

The Santa Ana winds, hot and dry, have faded and been replaced by gentle fall breezes. It's chilly at night and there is heavy morning dew. Southern California is less like God's Barbecue Grill these days and more like home again. The days are mild. The turning leaves, never generous in a climate too temperate to begin with, are meager this year but otherwise fall is in full swing at last.

My friend Will spent the weekend in San Francisco with his long-distance 48 hour paramour. He earns the name by beginning to panic after about the two day mark of each visit, often accompanied by premature flights home. Some people struggle with orientation their entire lives, but I digress. This time, the reaction was much milder and they actually completed their itenerary as planned. Will returned in a much better mood than usual and brought a gift- a plump loaf of fresh sourdough bread.

This morning I put on the coffee as usual and fired up the computer for my blog hour. It's my quiet morning reading time, a chance to catch up with my favorite writers and hopefully post a few coherent sentences myself. I've been noticeably lacking lately thanks to recent 60 hour work weeks and haven't yet figured out how to blame my inactivity on the Writer's Guild.

The house is dark except for the glow from the monitor. Steam rises from the coffeemaker and contrasts prominently against the cooler, denser air in the kitchen. It is unmistakably autumn. I slice thick slices of fresh sourdough bread and place them in the toaster oven. I watch them darken under a red glow. I sit at my desk in the quiet house, savoring fresh coffee, good writing, and the taste and texture of fresh sourdough toast. It's heavenly. I don't have to be anyplace for hours.