pigs ears and a kitchen with a view

If I tell you one thing about the kitchen of the home I am in, you will understand the suspended state of bliss
I find myself in here. On the windowsill over the long white granite countertop, sits a heavy stained wooden box with four compartments, each one filled with a different kind of salt. Black salt, pink salt, white salt, and a kind of brownish salt that I am sure is really green in sunlight. Add to that the speckled salt I bought, and that makes five. Bliss.On the counter below the salt box sit the four different kinds of vinegar I have bought since arriving seven days ago - champagne vinegar, port balsamic vinegar, sherry vinegar, and plum vinegar. We go well together, this kitchen and I.

The walls are painted my favorite spring green, with my favorite combination of turquoise (the tile backsplash to the stainless teel stovetop). Three cherry red lights hang over the charcoal granite center island in perfect warm counterpoint. The multiple drawers and cupboards are stocked with every kind of kitchen utensil I could possibly desire; three shelves in the fridge hold dozens of sauces and pickles in glass jars to which I am invited to help myself, and the pantry is stocked. So you may understand why, when  I somewhat carelessly reached into the unlit pantry, I almost fed a smoked pig's ear to the dogs for a treat, intstead of the dehydrated chicken breast.

When I sit at the long mahogany Scandinavian table, I am looking through a wall of glass at steep hillsides dotted with million dollar homes, tumbling into an expansive view of The Bay. A half block down the street, the view opens up completely; on a jewel clear day like today, I see downtown Oakland, the Bay Bridge, the Golden Gate Bridge, tankers on the water, the San Francisco skyline, Alcatraz, and the Pacific. It is all laid before me, and I do catch my breath.

Just so you don't feel bad that I am here and you are not, I will tell you one more thing; part of this gig is taking care of two absolutely adorable dogs...and I must pick up their poop. I have never done this in my life, and it is the sole reason that despite my great affection for canines, I will not own a dog in a place where they must be walked on leashes and I must pick up their poop as we go. I will tell you one more thing today, a deep dark secret: when the hapless neighbors innocently leave their trashcans on the curbside, I throw the bags of poop in them, so I do not have to feel the laden sacks rustling against my hands. Am I a naughty dog-walker?

Freed for a moment from poop, I gaze out onto the possibiliy of all that lays before me.