A lovely Sunday meal

After church this morning, Ida prepared a simple, yet hearty, repast of meat and summer potatoes drizzled with a lemon sauce of her own concoction. Both of us, surely ravaged by the length of the pastor's sermon, ate more than our customary fill. The simplicity of Ida's cooking took me back to my days as a young bootblack. Indeed, despite its simplicity, it was precisely the sort of meal I often imagined those gentlemen who did deign to procure my services must have enjoyed at the end of their days bookkeeping, filling orders, or scribbling stories for the local gazette.

As one would expect, Ida has now excused herself for a late afternoon respite. Whereas, I, ever vigilant of opportunity, have begun the next chapter in my novel. It, frankly, displeases me. It reads as if written in another tongue, as if it were naught but the ravings of a mad mind.

I shall ask Ida her opinion as soon as she wakes. Though she may no longer trust my judgement in matters of the intellect, I still trust hers. Indeed, the nostalgia with which she has wrought this latest of meals can suggest little else other than her continued understanding of my oft-flagging intellect. Ida is an angel. I do not deserve her.