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These doughnuts are spelled with an “ugh!” and were mine. But they are are pinkening Sara’s fingers, and I suspect the cinnamon twist of Ben-shaped treason. Last Tuesday, dishes began their own grazing and I’m pretty sure it is not my turn to wrangle them from pasture. I do not know how oregano sprouted from our ceiling. In a few weeks, when it hangs low enough, I will ask if it belongs to anyone. Then clip some for eggs. The best is when we’re all postured as if we had a sofa. Legs comfortably skewing. Our palms taking charcoal rubbings of the carpet. Overstiff elbows. Once Ben had the idea that all windowsills were Baptist Preachers…the first steps toward the light. Sara said he was transcendental. And I just swallowed my bagel where it sponged...