It’s a bit like Satie. Or, in our case, Satie played by daughter Emma on our old piano. On a fresh Saturday morning, spring sunshine gleams in the dining room windows (which you can tell I’ve washed, not altogether effectually, with my homemade window cleaner) (It’s the squeegee’s fault!). These cold jars of cider have just emerged from their long winter’s nap in the root cellar, and are basking in the morning light prior to joining us for breakfast. Jess is making breakfast, the kids are upstairs breaking something or other, and the morning sun is angling up from the southeast, at an angle just steeper than the ridge. The jars catch the light and turn incandescent. They’re filled with homemade sweet cider, pressed from the apples we gathered last fall, canned at home, and packed in the cold root cellar under the kitchen. It’s like health in a jar.

Saturday mornings usually mean a big day ahead: lots of cleanup, lots of laundry, some special projects inside, and a couple of big projects outside. I may have to tinker with the cars or swing the ladder up against the house; I will have to make bread and refill the woodpile on the back porch (36 cubic feet of wood for a week’s heat—not bad, I’d say). Saturdays are always busy. Later on maybe I’ll take the kids exploring or settle down for a little reading. But at our house, it’s work in the morning, play in the afternoon. The morning sunshine feeds ambition—I’ve got things to do.

But just now, on my way past the dining room, I see these cold jars basking in the fresh sunshine, and I have to grab for the camera. It’s like music in the light. It’s analgous to our lives, maybe. It’s a homemade life, but it’s as fresh and delicate and real as a piece by Satie.