I limped down the dark stairs toward the kitchen, my eyes full of sleep, a few minutes late for the beagle’s 7 am pill.

The light was on in the library as I stumbled by, the hub called me over. “Go back to bed,” he said.

“Did you give Little One her pill?”

“Yes, I did, I thought you’d want to sleep in. Go back to bed.”

But it was too late. I already smelled the coffee. “No, I’m going to stay up and drink coffee.”

Maybe catch up on a blog or two.

That was almost two hours ago and here I sit, still zombified. Thinking about going into the kitchen to make cinnamon rolls. Hearing the hub in there doing yet another load of dishes. I figure by the end of the day we’ll have all the pots scrubbed and put away, the silver and the wine glasses washed by hand, the dishes I borrowed from my mom packed up, the extra tables and chairs put back in their cupboard in the basement and the coffee urn and the food warmers back in their boxes in the cedar closet.

Three full days of cooking and set-up, one full day of dishes and tear down.

A labor of love.

And speaking of love, I love that guy in the kitchen. My foot loves him, too.