4.26 pm.

I sit, finally, to blog.

Do I blog of the cheese I made this morning, pressing on the kitchen counter? Do I describe the magical beauty of liquid milk congealing to a smooth, firm solid? The hours of tedious stirring? The firm, almost live feel of a new cheese?

Do I blog of the ten quarts of tomatoes, onions, peppers, tomatillos and spices I boiled down into ketchup today? Do I write of the bees that swarmed the kitchen when the vinegar was added, inexorably drawn to the sharp, spicy smell?

Do I blog of the corn and soybeans still awaiting me in the garden? Of the hours of steaming pots, and dirty dishes that still await me today?

No. I am weary of the kitchen. I am sick of its tantalizing fragrances and its steamy dishwater. I am irritated by the bees, who, once inside, can’t find their way out, and force me to watch every step for fear of ending my day with a trip to the hospital.

So there will be no blog post today, of the lingering smell of cloves and allspice, no detailed description of the art of cheese, no reminiscing of childhood afternoons shelling soy with my sister.

No. Instead, there will be 15 minutes of rest. A glass of wine. And then back into the fray.