The day is quiet, so very quiet. Finally the patter of softly falling rain reaches my ears through the open window at my side. I look up and out, to see green leaves fluttering in the wind against a steel gray sky. I rise and stand at the window to watch the rain soak invisibly into the parched earth of the garden.

It is the season when Attila leaves before light and arrives home at dark, tired and looking forward to his few hours of sleep. We chat in those few dark hours of contact, and take comfort in mutual presence.

The last week has passed in a blur.

The day of the attack on the US, my neighbor, J, called at 8:50 A.M. to insist that I turn on the television set. Magarac must be close to ninety years old, grew up in Europe, and spent time in refugee camps during WW2. He is no stranger to upheaval, to sudden brutal death. I was honored by his gesture of community.

The television set stayed tuned into the news until the official mourning ceremony at Parliament Hill in Ottawa on Friday. I listened carefully to what the various officials were saying and to the stories of those who suffered. I bore witness to world events.

Then the television set was switched off and I have relied totally on Attila to alert me to breaking news headlines. I have chosen to continue listening to the public addresses of leaders in the United States and Canada. I have totally rejected the febrile analysis offered by the media.

Attila often listens to the radio in the course of his day, and is quite good at relaying to me the highlights of the day's news. If something seems truly informative, I seek out further details on the Internet.

On the Thursday after the attack I received news that a loved one, only thirty-seven years old, has developed cancer and after surgery is facing "aggressive" chemo and radiation therapy.

On Friday my candle burned for the victims of the attack on the US. At the same time I burned a candle for this young woman and her three small children who had already suffered so many years of violence and fear at the hands of a man who should have loved them.

Today is quiet, so very quiet.

While the world turns, I have made myself busy in the kitchen. I visited a farmer's market with Auntie Mame and Mike on Saturday and came home with armloads of fresh basil, plums, heads of garlic, jalapeno peppers, and a huge melon.

Sunday was spent making the winters supply of Pesto. I have always used my food processor, purchased almost thirty years ago, to prepare foods that require a great deal of chopping. The food processor bowl recently cracked, with old age I suppose. I faced a daunting task of hand-chopping sixteen cups of basil, 4 heads of garlic, and two cups of pine nuts. In a determined attempt to avoid many hours of labor, I coaxed the cracked bowl onto the machine base and got it going. It kept going until all the Pesto was spooned into containers and whisked away to the freezer. The bowl was very difficult to remove from the base and so will be retired.

I called a few places to price a new food processor bowl, but none stocked such an item. This food processor is considered a "commercial" model and the bowl had to be specially ordered.

I grew up on a farm; the kind where people worked hard for not very much money and always had a garden and produce to put down for the winter. From the time I was very young I helped with picking and peeling and slicing. We canned and canned through the fall in those early years, later we relied more on a huge chest freezer. There were no convenience stores; there were no pre-prepared or packaged foods. It was a lot of work, and I loved it.

My first experience at university was in food sciences. I went on to teach food preparation to children in the public school system. With an income, an interest, and a love of food preparation, I purchased the biggest, most powerful counter food processor I could find. I am surprised to find that it is still the biggest and most powerful of its kind and that after thirty years the parts are still available. At least I think they are, my order was taken although the parts have not yet arrived.

On the same theme, my bread machine pan is starting to disintegrate, after more than five years of continuous use. When I purchased this machine it was not available for sale in Canada. After careful investigation, I bought this model from a private distributor in Florida and had it shipped at some expense to Canada. Since its arrival Attila and I have enjoyed fresh baked bread, usually four to six loaves per week.

I reached the head office in the US by telephone (toll free) and after a pleasant chat with the customer service rep, was referred to a Canadian company that now sells and services these bread machines. The call to the Canadian company was also toll free; the parts I need were in stock and are now on the way.

In both cases, it might have been cheaper in the long term to just buy newer model machines to replace those I own. But I like my machines; I understand them.

I have always appreciated the familiar.

I am happy to announce that I am officially growing old disgracefully and in very good compnay indeed! I have joined the Autumn Leaves journal burb and would like to thank Bonnie Blayney and John Bailey for such a fine contribution to the web community.