The weather is the same, a sort of boring rut of sun and cold. The sky is a bit cloudy, and there is a breeze, a small one though but it adds to the cold. I should go out as I need the usual, cream for my coffee and bread, but I don’t think I will. I’m still fighting that cold. I am tired and grumpy and probably should not be unleashed upon the world.

My life is quiet of late. I call people to let them know I haven’t died and been eaten by my dogs. That’s always a possibility. They are hungry critters.

I have the best mornings. As soon as I wake up, we all, the dogs and I, go downstairs. The dogs go outside, pee, then quickly run inside, well Nala quickly runs inside while Henry looks through the doggie door hoping I’ll see him to let him in. Once they’re in, the dogs follow me around the kitchen expecting their morning treats, a biscuit and a cookie, a real cookie, a doggie Oreo. It is then I get my coffee and toast, and the house smells of morning, of the coffee brewing and the bread toasting. My toast has been taken to a higher level. A friend sent me a jar of Black Mission Fig Jam. I have toast every morning just to have the jam. The jar is getting close to the bottom. I’d scream but I’m almost out of bread too. The end of this week is looking bleak.

When I was a kid, my favorite breakfast was boiled eggs served with toast strips for dunking. My mother served the eggs in egg cups with a pile of toast strips on the plate. Her boiled eggs always had plenty of yolk. I drank cocoa with breakfast.

The morning continues except it is afternoon. No matter the time, I still finish my morning routine in the same order every day: wake up, go downstairs, give treats, make coffee and toast, slather jam, read the newspaper, do the word puzzles, read my e-mail, drink more coffee and finally start Coffee. Today I am quite late, well into the afternoon. It happens that way some days.

Today is sunny and warm, winter warm at 42°, but, despite the nice day, I’m still hibernating. I haven’t been out of the house except to get the paper and the mail in the front yard. I am fighting a cold. I’m winning. Today is a better day.

When I was a kid, I had the usual kid diseases, but other than those, I was seldom sick. I hated to miss school but an every now and then sick day was welcomed. I got to lie on the couch, watch television and be waited on by my mother. She always served soup for lunch, usually tomato with a grilled cheese sandwich, the most iconic pairing since Adam and Eve. Her grilled cheese sandwiches were the stuff of legend. They were perfectly browned and oozing cheese, Velvetta. The soup was thick. My mother made it with milk instead of water. That lunch made being sick worthwhile.

My dance card is empty. I have nothing uke until next Tuesday, my practice night. I’m enjoying this time off as the weeks before Christmas were so busy, so filled with concerts.

Winter got boring when it got too cold to go out to play and far too cold for a bike ride. My afternoons were spent watching TV or reading. Sometimes I’d sit at the kitchen table and watch my mother making supper. I remember her mashing the potatoes right in the pan with the metal masher. It clanged when it hit the sides of the pan. She’d add milk and keep mashing. Finally she’d add butter and let it melt into the potatoes. I love mashed potatoes. I love my mother’s mashed potatoes.

We had a lot of ground beef when I was a kid. I never minded as it was served so many different ways. I loved my mother’s meatloaf. She’d sometimes spread the top with ketchup and cover the ketchup with bacon strips. I’d try to steal some of the crispy bacon out of the oven but my mother was on alert. She’d also serve her meatloaf spread with a frosting of mashed potatoes which she browned in the oven. My mother served food from elsewhere adding an international flair to her ground beef. We ate Chinese, Italian, Mexican and, a hybrid, American chop suey, an oxymoron of sorts. I always have ground beef in my freezer.

In Bolga, I could buy meat, beef, at the meat stall in the market. It took very little time before I was inured to the meat market. I swear the butchers wore the same aprons my entire two years of shopping there. I came to recognize many of the stains. We got so close I should have given them names. Anyway, the butcher always cut me a piece of beef tenderloin, weighed it then wrapped it in banana leaves for me. For dinner the beef was either sliced then cooked in a tomato sauce or ground and also cooked in a tomato sauce, the same tomato sauce by taste. Choices were limited in Bolga.