Somewhere around five of the clock dawn becomes available , tweets and twitters start up.

the day is undetermined greyish and new.

Getting out of under the doona of dreams is the hardest part, the feet swinging to the ground making contact with the world of 3D doings .

up until that point one has the choice to snuggle back in  and return to the dream  .

 

I padded out to the kitchen this dawn started up Stanley filled the kettles leaving  the vent open to get it happening.

I unfolded the  yoga mat and began slowly stretching ;  the fingers arms shoulders neck, the toes feet ankles knees legs, the back the front , a salute to the sun and a prayer of thanksgiving  for the unfolding day.

The house  still quietly  dreaming.

My favourite parcel of the day.

The dawn shift, the early morning stirring to make its stamp on the world.

The kettles begin their dance  and I fold up the mat.

 

A big brown sourdough loaf sits on the bench waiting.

I make the first cuts and place the thin slices on Stanley.

Some people have toasters

we have a hot plate.

 

Bec started the sourdough culture  a few months ago and has been the resident bread baker until she went off  in her mazda for a cosmic trip.

John  bread baker in a previous incarnation before boat builder and before bikie picked up the culture and

put a loaf in the oven last night after dinner . it cooked while we watched a movie.

 

It is such a wild idea, the sourdough one, a culture created by hanging around outdoors in forest or garden in  daytime  or moonlight and pluck passing wild yeasts from out of the air.

how peculiar .

how organic.

how wild.

And then along come human hands that knead and mould  it bringing a collaboration to the table.

I imagine that  when we eat  and the sharp sour flavours burst into my  mouth with a tang and a shriek that I can hear stories told of sunlight dancing on water, snakes sliding thru blackberry, lizards basking on steps and kookaburras laughing.

 

John rises claims his teapot and toast, adds  sardines chives a squeeze of lemon juice and heads back to bed.

I do the 2012  lime marmalade on my toasted crust and join him.

The early cuppa is  sacred business,  to be savoured and not rushed, to be tender with not brusque ,

to be with.

.

We watch the usual array of honeyeaters darting in and out of the giant callistamen busy busy in their gentle song filled way.

I am reminded to add song to my day, to add voice in loving tones to the pattern emerging,

to add joy in equal measure.

By the time the sun glints a little into the forest  I am in the garden pulling out old  blackberry canes and clearing timbers left over from the solar switchboard renovations.

Kingston escapes the house wearing two beanies, his sandals and his lime green  dressing gown. He follows me around chatting effortlessly continuously and helps to stack the timbers on a wall in the carport.

 

After a bit Jess joins us and we clear  the stinging nettle away from the lemon tree, not clear clear but enough to give it  a good move on . Thanks to Carole and her  sheep manure we have never been short of stinging nettle.

It has got so that you cannot pick a lemon without getting zapped.

Not that I mind it that much, in fact it is a kind of interesting sensation .

While I was getting nettled this morning because lets face it even a long sleeved shirt and gloves are no real barrier to the formic acid doing its thing,  I dreamed up a pie featuring  nettles and potatoes.

known as  urtica urens  nettle is highly nutritious contains a huge amount  of protein as well heaps of iron and chlorophyll , sounds too good not to eat and  I know this  is  pretty weird  but Glenda and I have been known to rub it into our finger joints and believe that it helps alleviate  the stiffness .

So after it got too hot to work in the garden I went into the kitchen, made some pastry and filled it with shallots found under the lemon tree, mushroom found in the coolroom, nettles and potatoes.

 

What can I say but, the pie was excellent .