....to wake by my side
I’m not making a list, now.
It would be too much pressure for her, whoever she turns out to be.
And let us be honest here, the lists along the path that is our life, they tend to change with the seasons, and new wrinkles, don’t they?
Still, there are some things I will hold eternally vital in my bindle carrying the essentials.
That’s a great word, isn’t it? bindle
Ponder a lad on his escape from a cruel stepfamily, a barefoot lad, with worn out Huckleberry trousers ending slightly above the ankles. His only possession is the food he stole from stepmother’s kitchen, it is packed in a red and white checkered piece of cloth, bundled, tied together and resting at the end of a wooden rod which he casually holds over his shoulder, as he’s wandering down the dusty road, down a much dreamt escape, towards riches and fame.
My bindle holds several tools to promised happiness affront the footsteps I tread, and helped shape some along them already walked. Some of them tools are treasures, some of them simple belongings.
One is this note I bring out every now and then to scribble what essential, what traits I want my woman to hold, and laugh your heart out now if you wish, it is written tongue in cheek, this admission of mine, but still with plenty seriousness……
……..I want her to every now and then bake me a loaf of bread.
I added it today, to my bindle.
As I was sat having dinner earlier - a delicious gulasch soup, rich with potato and beef - a nice chat was had with a couple of women who frequent the local nearby, the local into which I oft venture, for meals, and ale or wine, and for nice chats with nice women. The subject at hand was nurturing a relationship, making it remain alive, potent, and one of these fine ladies of the northern hemisphere, Gothenburg to be exact, she said that she would often, on Sunday mornings, she would wake early and bake bread to be had fresh, for breakfast.
I like that image. Of a woman waking early, eagerly because it is something of love she wants to do, her fists fighting dough, her palms shaping it into a length, and then that smell filling the air as it is brough out of the oven.
Is there a better smell, something greater smelling than fresh bread, apart from the smell of your woman lying next to you on a Sunday morning?
No, there isn’t!
There is something basic, something very simple, yet so filled with a richness, value, and love about a loaf of bread being baked by your beloved woman on a Sunday morning.
I’m not making a list, now.
It would be too much pressure for her, whoever she turns out to be.
And let us be honest here, the lists along the path that is our life, they tend to change with the seasons, and new wrinkles, don’t they?
Still, there are some things I will hold eternally vital in my bindle carrying the essentials.
That’s a great word, isn’t it? bindle
Ponder a lad on his escape from a cruel stepfamily, a barefoot lad, with worn out Huckleberry trousers ending slightly above the ankles. His only possession is the food he stole from stepmother’s kitchen, it is packed in a red and white checkered piece of cloth, bundled, tied together and resting at the end of a wooden rod which he casually holds over his shoulder, as he’s wandering down the dusty road, down a much dreamt escape, towards riches and fame.
My bindle holds several tools to promised happiness affront the footsteps I tread, and helped shape some along them already walked. Some of them tools are treasures, some of them simple belongings.
One is this note I bring out every now and then to scribble what essential, what traits I want my woman to hold, and laugh your heart out now if you wish, it is written tongue in cheek, this admission of mine, but still with plenty seriousness……
……..I want her to every now and then bake me a loaf of bread.
I added it today, to my bindle.
As I was sat having dinner earlier - a delicious gulasch soup, rich with potato and beef - a nice chat was had with a couple of women who frequent the local nearby, the local into which I oft venture, for meals, and ale or wine, and for nice chats with nice women. The subject at hand was nurturing a relationship, making it remain alive, potent, and one of these fine ladies of the northern hemisphere, Gothenburg to be exact, she said that she would often, on Sunday mornings, she would wake early and bake bread to be had fresh, for breakfast.
I like that image. Of a woman waking early, eagerly because it is something of love she wants to do, her fists fighting dough, her palms shaping it into a length, and then that smell filling the air as it is brough out of the oven.
Is there a better smell, something greater smelling than fresh bread, apart from the smell of your woman lying next to you on a Sunday morning?
No, there isn’t!
There is something basic, something very simple, yet so filled with a richness, value, and love about a loaf of bread being baked by your beloved woman on a Sunday morning.
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