COOKIES FOR BREAKFAST

Cookies for breakfast?

Heck, yes!

I started running a fever Tuesday night. Yesterday (Wednesday), I felt horrible - either because of this sneezing-snotty-coughing bug or because I piggy-backed Tylenol and ibuprofen all day long. Blech. Helen and I muddled through the school day. Cooked dinner. Gave up the fight and headed to bed shortly after 8:00. Not a good day.

This morning? I still feel a little "under the weather," as we say in the south, but so far, I haven't felt the urge to reach for the Tylenol. Things are looking up.

When I shuffled into the kitchen at six o'clock this morning, I discovered that the kitchen fairy had been here. Helen baked a batch of her fantabulous chocolate chip cookies sometime after I lost consciousness last night. A side order of cookies for breakfast? Absolutely! Mmmmmm!

After the college crowd hit the highway for Martin, I headed outside to tend the chickens. As water splashed from the spigot on the back of the house into a five-gallon bucket, it struck me how amazing it was that, with the turn of a small metal ring, I could have clear, sweet water in abundance, right there at my fingertips. Just like magic. Honestly, I stood there mesmerized by the running water. Almost let the bucket overflow.

I stopped by the shed to fetch a bucket of chicken feed. My beautiful mouse was stuck in the bottom of the feed bin, again. If I were a real farmer, I'd call him a rodent, or vermin, and smush him. Instead, I'm just amazed at how beautiful he is. If I weren't afraid it would cause him to have a heart attack (his little heart beats so incredibly fast!), I could stand there and hold him in my hand and look at him for....well, not forever. I need to feed the chickens.

My chickens. Here at Kendallville, we have established a home for reprobate chickens. My flock of Buff Orpingtons, decimated by a nefarious raccoon this summer, has been augmented by an assortment of the most peculiar looking, chicken-brained birds, castoffs from a would-be chicken farmer whose neighbors had problems with the noise and mess.

Among this motley assortment of fowl, we have a young Welsummer rooster. Helen has dubbed him Henry. He is very handsome. Looks something like a leggy, tripped out road-runner. Henry is just learning to crow, and he sounds ridiculous. Er-ah-erghhhh! He awlays chokes on about the third syllable, coughs, then tries again. Henry makes me smile every single morning.

Cookies for breakfast. Magical water. A quivering brown velvet dumpling in my hand. A ridiculous rooster.

Life is full of so many wonders.