Domestic Bliss

There’s a moose stew bubbling in the pot, made with garden carrots and my neighbor Betty’s apples, for a little added spice. Chip says local apples are to store bought ones what sockeye salmon are to humpies. (Is that how you spell it, or is it humpys?) Either way, I am no fan of humpy pie, no matter that more people eat canned pink salmon than any other kind.  I’m icing my knee, and polishing my first Woman’s Day column, it will run in November, and what with the stew, fresh sweet peas in the vase, a fire in the stove and a relatively tidy house, I’m feeling very Woman’s Day-ey. (Or is it Day-ie?) The only thing that’s ruining the moment is Forte’s farts. The big old retriever is on the floor next to me blissfully gassing away in his sleep. It’s so bad I have the window open, and a heavy sweater on, and Grandma Angie’s blanket tucked around me. Sarah and baby Caroline just arrived. “Oh God it stinks in here,” Sarah said, and woke Forte up and shoved him out the door. Ah domestic bliss. (Don’t tell Woman’s Day or I might get fired before I begin.)