Southern Girl...Southern World

I've been spending a lot of time in my kitchen lately. Not necessarily cooking, although I recently made an awesome pot roast/all the trimmings with extreme righting effects, but more or less just sitting there at the table. It's usually where I end up writing my morning pages because that's where the coffee's brewing. I installed a bird feeder directly outside the window, and so far, only the titmouse (what a peculiar name for a bird, and I feel ridiculous typing it) has had enough courage to go on eating while I'm sitting only a few feet away. They're grey little birds with a crested head and big black eyes. My hat's off to them for being unafraid. And for stumping me as to how to pluralize their name: titmice? titmouses? or just two or titmouse? I'm too lazy to look it up.

We planted a container herb/vegetable garden on the back porch, so we have dill, peppers, tomatoes, basil, rosemary, mint, and some other things I can't recall. When I'm cooking, all I have to do is walk outside the door, clip some herb or other, and I'm in business. I'm not sure why, but planting them gives me so much satifaction--A certain connectedness to women of my past who were much more self-sufficient than I am. I look at not just the plants, but the planting, as a makeshift link to them and my past in general.

I also let my son plant some sunflowers, and those are doing nicely as well. I think all children should be responsible for the survival of something other than themselves. Adults, too.