The morning is dreadful. The sky is grey, the wind is blowing, and it has just started raining. The one saving grace is it’s warm, or at least warmer than I expected.

I am elated. My front garden has eight daffodil buds. They seemed to have popped up in the last couple of days. My kitchen Christmas cactus isn’t a Christmas cactus. It is an Easter cactus flowering right now. It has ten red flowers. Beautiful flowers. Spring is so very close.

When I was a kid, rainy days were my least favorite. Whether a deluge or a spitting rain, I walked to and from school. We didn’t have recess. That meant the second half of the school day lasted forever. No one paid attention to the lessons. We watched the rain hit the windows, and we watched the hands of the big clock barely inch toward the end of the day.

Jack and Henry are having their morning naps. Henry is on the couch and Jack is stretched across the table. He was asleep on my paper when I came back from the kitchen. I pulled it out from under him. He meowed at me. It was a sort how dare you meow, a reminder of how cats always feel entitled.

Some days only certain foods will do. Last week, I wanted Chinese food. Before that, it was Thai. I wanted pizza this week. I ordered it with hamburger and onions. The hamburger was more for Jack and Henry than for me. I like the food delivered. It isn’t all that cheap, but it is just so convenient. The only weird thing is there are no Mexican restaurants offering the service. That’s makes me want fajitas and enchiladas.

The food I most crave is jollof rice. On my last trip to Ghana, I think I ate it every day in Bolga. The rice was piled high on the plate and took up most of the room. Usually chicken was my meat of choice with Guinea fowl close behind, but they were B-movie actors compared to the rice. I never left any rice on my plate. I ate every grain, careful not to bite down on a rock.