Some say it’s weird that I prefer cold, stormy days. Maybe it’s the way the hard raindrops shoot our dainty cottage, spraying the tin roof with liquid bullets. Maybe it’s the way the lake looks the second before a purple bolt strikes the flat surface of the water. Maybe it’s the warm, comforting tea that spins around in my mug, hugging my fingers, while steam swirls into my nostrils. The fuzz of the cozy red and black blanket gets caught in the strings of my worn sweatpants as I wriggle in to yet another comfortable position. The dark greyness of the clouds engulfs the cottage, and I feel safe, as if being cradled by someone I love. Deep, loud rumbles of thunder knock on the heavy orange door at the front of the cottage, as if politely asking me to let them in. Strikes of lightning extend down from the sky as if to retrieve something; similar to a frog’s tongue jumping out to catch it’s prey. The way this day makes me feel is unexplainable. Comforting, cozy, complete.
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