Sunday Pasta

My porch has a lot of windows and my chair is good. Sometimes I just watch the traffic on the pike. Sometimes I have a book, and sometimes I knit. My hands don’t make it easy anymore, but my afghans still turn out.

Sundays are busier. A pot of gravy is on, a pie is cooling, and pasta is in the dining room. I make a lot because I always do. You never know who’s coming and someone always does.

On the best days, every view from every room reminds me of my family, but I do like my porch.