15 minutes

I have 15 minutes to write. Well, actually 14 minutes after the time it took to sign in.

Regardless.

I've got gargantuan cinnamon rolls in the oven. I got up on a Sunday morning at 6:30 to pull the dough from the fridge, the dough I made yesterday in the 90 degree heat.

Okay, maybe it wasn't 90 degrees, but by 4 in the afternoon, it felt like 90 degrees. It was so hot that we got in the car with the dog and headed over to Doris and Steven's for a dip in their unheated pool. The dog, too.

He loves it. We love it. He wears a floatation device, we wear swimming suits. He leaps off the side of the pool, we ease ourselves in, sucking in air the whole time. He swims around in circles chasing after tennis balls, we swim around after him. He is a much faster swimmer than we are.

We came home to a hot house, but feeling pool cooler we ate a dinner of leftovers and watched the women's basketball game. The dog slept. Like the dead. He looked like a 10-year old boy who'd spent the day at the city pool. His reddish blond hair curly and sun-dried.

Later, we went for an evening walk with Monty from up the street and his owner, our friend, Colleen. It was cooler, but still hot. The dog was still tired, but Monty, recovering from a strained left front leg, was raring to go. He has had little exercise in hopes that rest will help him heal a bit. Rubin did his best to keep up, but his swimming legs were tired.

And then we came home. Ann had made a Clafouti(?) using cherries from our cherry tree. Very good. Not too sweet, not to dry.

15 minutes, when you really use them, is a lot of time.

Next door the new neighbors are tearing apart their house and their yard. Young and industrious, they have ripped the back of the house off and are building an enormous deck. They ripped up the front yard, planted grass, and are waiting to finish the deck before putting in a brick patio and garden.

I gave them some cinnamon rolls. The first batch.

And I gave two more to the neighbors up the street. They saw me deliver the first batch, so I felt guilty and delivered a couple to them. The neighbors from the other block were walking by with their dog, so I'll need to drop off some cinnamon rolls at their house from the second batch.

I got up at 6:30 and it is now almost 9:30. Three hours of baking and delivering; 15 minutes of writing.

And still there is more time.

Rubin is refusing to eat his breakfast. He wolfed down his dinner last night. Swimming always makes me hungry, too, but he acted famished. I thought he'd eat more this morning, but instead, he's curled up on the bamboo floors just at the place where the cool air from the office window meets the cool air from the back door.

He is content.

I am content.

Ann is in the garden and she is always most content there.

I'm waiting for the buzzer for the second batch, but still I write.

The radio is on and I'm not listening to NPR. Instead, it's Sunday Brunch, a local station's attempt to play some mellower sounds, but right now they are playing commercials.

And I can smell the cinnamon rolls. This batch will include a delivery to Colleen (Monty's mom) and Dely up the street. And the neighbors on the other block. I shall eat one, too, though Ann couldn't finish hers and she let me eat the last two bites.

I love cinnamon rolls, but this was a long process.

"I think I'll make these maybe two or three times a year," I informed Ann.

"Ah," is all she said, as in "ah" that's too bad.

And there is the buzzer.

15 minutes and so much can get done.