Six pounds of local-ish honey, four gallons of spring water, and a pack of champagne yeast mixed up to make tasty things in ye olde carboy. Three pints of French onion soup caramelized in canning jars in the pressure cooker because the future is here. Glass of ruby port in my hand to celebrate the first real snow and because some went in the soup. Basket of lemons/limes/grapefruit mounded over for a couple weeks’ cocktails. Dog napping in front of the fireplace, pollock prepping to lead the soup come supper, and the sun is setting.
Things are right and good, nothing else matters.