Blessed Litha and Happy Friday

Summer is the time when one sheds one's tensions with one's clothes, and
the right kind of day is jeweled balm for the battered spirit. A few of those
days and you can become drunk with the belief that all's right with the world.

Ada Louise Huxtable

Ah, summer has arrived.  Unfortunately this  year I have to work, but next year I will be home to celebrate however I choose.  Yesterday was such a perfect day, not too hot or humid with a light breeze.  I was thinking how nice it would have been to pack a small picnic lunch and take my Kindle to the park  for the day.  But soon, very soon, I'll be able to do that every day if I so choose.  16 days and counting.

This is a cooking weekend for me, and something else that will be ending.  Since I won't be working I won't be rushing to make sure all the meals are cooked in one day.  Instead, I'll be able to cook every day and make some extra special meals again, something else I have been looking forward to.  I've always loved cooking, but throughout the years have grown to hate it because I hadn't had the time to enjoy it.  Now, I once again find myself looking forward to spending time in the kitchen.  Be prepared for pictures and recipes.

And with that, I'd like to leave you this morning with this lovely poem, so appropriate for today.  May your summer joys be many.

Oh, summer has clothed the earth
In a cloak from the loom of the sun!
And a mantle, too, of the skies’ soft blue,
And a belt where the rivers run.

And now for the kiss of the wind,
And the touch of the air’s soft hands,
With the rest from strife and the heat of life,
With the freedom of lakes and lands.

I envy the farmer’s boy
Who sings as he follows the plow;
While the shining green of the young blades lean
To the breezes that cool his brow.

He sings to the dewy morn,
No thought of another’s ear;
But the song he sings is a chant for kings
And the whole wide world to hear.

He sings of the joys of life,
Of the pleasures of work and rest,
From an o’erfull heart, without aim or art;
’T is a song of the merriest.

O ye who toil in the town,
And ye who moil in the mart,
Hear the artless song, and your faith made strong
Shall renew your joy of heart.

Oh, poor were the worth of the world
If never a song were heard,—
If the sting of grief had no relief,
And never a heart were stirred.

So, long as the streams run down,
And as long as the robins trill,
Let us taunt old Care with a merry air,
And sing in the face of ill. 

Paul Lawrence Dunbar

Wishing you all a great weekend.  See you on Monday.