I always liked the morning.

No, I don’t mean 10 am, when the normal hustle and bustle of the day is well underway, or even 8 am, when Ma is just putting the eggs and bacon on to fry before Pa comes back from milking the cows—I mean 5 am. That brief moment of each day when the sun hasn’t yet peeked over the mountain ridge to say hello, but you can see him coming. That moment when you see the promise of a new day, a promise not yet fully realized.

It’s in those moments I sneak out of the house to take a walk down the winding path towards the barley fields. At the edge of the first field, there’s a big oak tree perfect for sitting under that great-granddaddy planted some several decades ago (I’m not sure exactly when, because I’ve only head the tale once). I wish I had a better memory. Ma says it’s one of my greatest shortcomings. “Rose,” she says, “if you forget your own grandmmama’s biscuit recipe one more time, I’ll have your-“

It wouldn’t be nice of me to record the rest of that sentence.

Cooking has never been one of my strong suits. I understand the basics, sure. You take some meat, throw some dried plants on it, maybe pour on a little vinegar, then stick it on the fire. It’s the fire part that I can’t ever seem to understand. I can’t touch or feel it to tell if it’s the right temperature. I don’t know how long to leave meat on it. Ten minutes can feel like an hour or vice versa. It’s all the same to me.

I’m reminded of this fact about time when I hear Pa calling out to me from the house. I look up from my journal. This morning was an especially nice morning, which means I’ve lost especial track of time out here. I’m late.

Time to realize today’s promise.