Recently I have been appreciating soft things. Soft things have made themselves very much a part of my daily life. In the pillowy mounds of finely ground espresso powder leveled by my index finger and pressed firmly into a metal filter. The serum slowly drips and pulls, drips and pulls its way down until it rises in a shot glass as an ounce of liquid and dark cream later dolloped with milk froth.
At other times I am piling copious amounts flour into creamed butter and sugar watching it turn round in a large silver bowl puffing out small clouds of white as it incorporates. When the mixing is complete I reach down into the delightfully light softness and form it into cylinders for freezing.
In the evnenings I roll into my low-laying matress a little a little grey Olive gently wriggles her way underneath the blankets. She squirms a bit then rests her tiny head on my soft belly. It seems she is soothed by the subtle swaying of her head to my sleeping breath.
And today, as my feet sunk in the freshly watered soil on a frequented trail, the softness came to me again and I am grateful for it.
