Walter Mosley says three hours, but I’ve only got one. I’ll use it.

“Slow, but that’s to be expected.”

Her face. Her smile. I miss being in the same room with her.

The pad isn’t working, it keeps making that noise. She comes through and swipes a $100 gift card. We think she’s just trying to test the machine. She says, “there you go.” “What? What?” “Secret Santa!” I say “thank you” - at least I think I’m saying thank you. That has to be the best job of the day. Just walking around giving people free groceries. Especially in a time like this.

I take the boules out of the oven. They have risen! And perfectly brown. I hope they are done on the inside.

I have to make two trips, one for this side of the circle and another for the other parts of the neighborhood. He says I should drive, but I need the fresh air.

As I make my way down the hill, the light of late afternoon is shining on the vineyards in the valley below. There are a blue sky and golden sun, the craggy mountains and hillsides, and the naked vines. This was still a good idea.

Gratitude.

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and it doesn’t feel like it. But nothing these days feels normal.

Back to Schitt’s Creek.