The creek was a chuckling whisper as I passed by one of its many elbowing curves on my way through the meadow-turned-woods this morning. I could have sworn the run was lower last night when I walked the path that hugs its steep banks. Maybe it rained. How did I miss that? Oh, right. Sleep.

In a rare alignment of our schedules, Patrick and I both had the day off last Friday and in true starry-eyed fashion, spent the late after-work hours of Thursday evening building an ambitious “what we’re going to do” list with at least nineteen of those blank slate twenty-four hours. It was a lovely mix of gardening, baking and packing the cars for Saturday’s market gig, some time in our respective studios finishing some works-in-progress and a couple of medical appointments. Maybe we’d squeeze in a leisurely stroll through the nearby arboretum and stop for ice cream on the way home. When the sun had set on our time together, we were going to congratulate ourselves on yet another un-squandered day and fall asleep in the glow of our accomplishments.

There’s the trip you plan, and then there’s the trip you take.

I slept in Friday until 9:15, roused only by the mews and batting paws of four over-hungry cats (when left alone to their own unfed devices for that long, the living room and kitchen can be transformed into the most curious of feline crime scenes. I braced myself on the way downstairs). Patrick joined me around 9:30 and we adjusted our expectations for the remains of the day. I did bake a couple of trays of granola for Saturday’s market while Patrick dialed in for his 10:30 telehealth appointment. After that, it’s anyone’s guess as to where the rest of our time went. Earlier last week, we’d loaded up the old stove in the back of the truck and installed the shiny new one, with every good intention to make a quick stop at the local salvage yard to put the old one to rest. But hectic work schedules and a couple of rainy days put that off and on my way down to release the chickens into their ambitiously-planned day (peck, scratch, cluck, repeat), I noticed the stove still sitting patiently, strapped in near the tailgate, contemplating its future. Maybe we could swing by the dump on the way to Patrick’s other medical appointment (not telehealth—kinda tricky when it involves massage and acupuncture). So that’s what we did and once we were back home, loaded up the cars for the market and declared a “dinner on your own” arrangement before crawling into bed, the sun winking knowingly on our day’s attempt at Ambitious Accomplishment (I’d like points for not dissolving into pouty disappointment and embracing a new definition of success).

The market was low-key and chilly, a sobering sales forecast as we head into its winter season where we’ll still be outdoors for November and December (a long story involving new management of the old indoor location and construction soon rendering it unavailable). After four hours, we packed up our equipment and what remained of our inventory, stopping long enough to trade a couple of bags of the Maple Pecan for some sweet peppers and poblanos from the vendor next to us. Next stop was Patrick’s mom’s place, where pizza and good family conversation awaited. Patrick would spend the night there and I’d return home to tuck in chickens, feed cats and collapse. I did at least two of those three and could easily have scrolled my way through the last minutes of daylight, but dag nabbit, this was a long weekend and one way or another, I was going to wake up Monday with some evidence that I lived a purposeful life here. Instead of returning directly to the house after locking up the hens, I strolled through the meadow and finished the loop past the sweat lodge and the garden, rewriting Sunday’s to-do list in my mind. A batch of mom’s no-bake chocolate oatmeal cookies, some turkey barley vegetable soup, vacuum the living room rug. At least two of those would help with part of the week’s meal-planning. I drifted off to sleep with a fresh commitment to ambition firmly in hand.

Woke up this morning, made the bed and from 6:30am until just past 11:00am, I put that new stove and its oven through their respective functioning paces. There’s something about baking and cooking that renews a lagging spirit and I showed up for it, in spades. Some Gala and Fuji apples just on the edge of mealy are now tucked into a warm bed of oats, ground almonds, cider-soaked cranberries and a crumbly butter-laced topping. A stockpot full of turkey barley vegetable soup is keeping warm on the front burner while a granola-crusted yogurt and strawberry flan is cooling to room temperature before I’ll wrap it and set it in the fridge. A baker’s dozen of mom’s no-bake chocolate oatmeal cookies are resting proudly on the waxed paper-covered kitchen table, and while I had the bag of pearled barley out, cooked just enough to add to a rough chopped mix of fresh kale, rainbow chard and thinly sliced red onion. With some feta and chopped apricots added to that, tossed in a white wine vinegar and olive oil dressing seasoned with basil and oregano, I’ve got lunch for the week (I would also like points for a clean kitchen, trash emptied and the living room rug vacuumed).

Somewhere between last night’s promise and this morning’s food marathon, I reclaimed the gift of a blank slate that was our long weekend. Patrick’s making his way home from his mom’s and the cats have settled into their well-earned Sunday afternoon naps (all that eating and gamboling about the field behind the chicken coops sure does take its toll. Bless them). As I write this, it’s not even 1:30pm.

I wonder how that “bread proof” feature on the new stove works…