the. bungalow. post.

One night, like many, Zander tied on the apron strings.  He's top chef like his mama.  I could excuse myself by saying I'm pregnant and oxygen and chocolate are the only things I really want to be inhaling, but I can't.  Pregnant or not, I'd rather be doing something else than cooking.
Waste not want not.  He gathered broccoli from the garden, broccoli that had already opened into tiny yellow flowers.  Bubbling and melting in the next pan over was a lot of garlic, a lot of butter, a lot of lemon juice and just enough salt.   The blossoms on each their own pale green stem formed a perfect broom for sweeping up the addicting buttery sauce into our wide panned mouths.   Kids were ignored as they chewed their chicken in the next room, but I finally came to my senses and thought it would be nice to share the bounty.  Ender with the most refined palate of a four year old I know, lapped it up and even Cora ate it.  I think the bees must have left a little honey on each flower for the yellow haired girl. 

I noticed a bee with tattered wings.  It still hovered and hummed along without slowing.   How does a bee fly?  Its a myth now.  That bees shouldn't be able to fly.  God gave away just a little bit more of His secret and now we see that bees are not supposed to be studied against the flight mechanisms of an airplane.  Their wings are flexible, not rigid, for instance.  They are more like gods summoning mini hurricanes above their rotating garlic skinned wings and thus lift off.
God must create little storms of power above my tattered and faith flexed wings.  The honeybee does not tire like me, but we both by God's mystery and grace fly on to the next flower.