Late summer and early fall were the times of year she liked being in the kitchen during the mornings. When the mornings were crisp and clear, the cool scent of dew mixed with decaying matter creating a synergy of perfect smells. From the aging annuals flowering their last hurrah at the back door; to the pungent and musty smell of oak and cottonwood leaves, damp from fall rains. The odors combined in a symphony of flavors that tickled the nose.
She would bake in the morning, filling the kitchen with the warm spiciness of cinnamon and nutmeg, or the sharp freshness of orange and lemon. She would bake tender scones or fluffy blue-berry muffins, studded with crystalized ginger. She would hum as she baked. Popular songs she heard on the radio, or old classics her parents had taught her to appreciate. Rock on morning, country the next. It didn’t make a difference. She just liked having music in her head.
When she felt adventurous, she would put on her once concession to opera; Handel’s Trois Cantatas. Sometimes she contemplated a few rap songs she had, but usually those were designated “AFTERNOON” and not to be played before that time. There really was a time and a place for certain types of music. Just like there was a time and a place for certain teas or specific books. She wouldn’t have been caught dead drinking Earl Grey for breakfast, just like she wouldn’t be caught reading erotic fiction anywhere else other than her room after dark.
Usually while she baked she would have a pot of hot tea at the ready and she would sip cups of lukewarm tea when she finally got around to it. It wasn’t that the tea grew cold in the pot, but more that she would forget she had poured herself a cup. Sometimes she wondered if she liked having the tea at the ready more than she liked drinking it.
Just a bit of random flash fiction. I was smelling the spicy scent of wood burning fires, and puttering in the kitchen today. This came to mind.