Going clockwise, starting on the table at 3 o’clock:
- A five-gallon batch of sour cherry mead in the beginning stages of fermentation, squeee!
- A small fraction (a very small fraction) of the eggs that we’re getting from my daughter’s hens.
- My bowl of leftover ramen, bulked up with broccoli, grilled chicken, and kale.
- Sourdough, bulk proofing.
- A triple batch of sourdough crackers waiting to be rolled out and sprinkled with everything bagel seasoning.
- A box of garden goodies — lettuce, cabbage, broccoli, two kinds of cauliflower, onions, garlic, and a single red beet — from the farm where my son worked that morning.
- A kettle of whey leftover from making cuajada.
- My son’s bowl of ramen, and the bowl of tuna salad he just mixed up for his lunch because he was famished.
- My son fixing a massive sandwich, plus a plate of cheese and crackers and that soup.
- My notebook, opened to the cheesemaking log. (I’d just tasted and packaged a bandage-wrapped cheddar. It was divine.)
And on the counters, starting from the left:
- A dirty skillet leftover from the morning’s eggs: my husband had four and my son had two, plus they both had toast and lassis.
- The instant-read thermometer that I used to make the cheese.
- Two pounds of ground beef thawing for the supper burgers.
- Four jars (tucked behind the olive oil bottle) of sour cherry jam, waiting to be run down cellar.
- Hamburger buns thawing.
- Clabber clabbering.
- The beginnings of a massive pile of dishes that my son washed mid-afternoon.