I derive inordinate pleasure from my yellow cooking pot. I don’t like anyone else to wash it, for that job is nearly sacred and therefore mine alone.
I love my gas fireplace on a cold winter’s morning. Better yet, couple that with tea and books.
Bengal Spice tea is practically a drug in my feel-good repertoire. Especially when it’s been steeped overnight. Its natural cinnamony overtones sweeten it beautifully.
I love Ombra bubbles in my bath. I could stay in there for hours, smelling their pungent smells.
I love Lululemon running clothes with their perfect little pockets made for carrying Ipods.
I love Anthropologie linens and Anthropologie everything.
I love the smell of lavender.
I love sunshine and positive people. The two are sometimes directly linked, I think.
I love finding a new author I love, only to then discover that she’s written scads of books.
I love Zumba. The ridiculous ways I’m asked to contort my body make me laugh.
I love freshly bathed kids with trimmed fingernails and clean ears.
I love watching my kids from my deck as they jump on the trampoline, a laughing, shrieking pile of happy kids reminding me of puppies, clambering all over one another.
I love sun-washed Hawaiian holidays with eminently whole sisters who are unashamed loud laughers.
I love waking up slowly on a weekend morning, only to find that someone in this world loves me enough to have placed a Starbucks coffee in an insulated mug on my nightstand. He doesn’t ever forget the cream.
I love the feeling of being completely surrounded by forest.
I love the smell of citrus peel.
I love cold, hard, crisp granny smith apples. The perfect, unblemished greenness of them makes me feel like all is well in the world. I think I like looking at them almost as much as I like eating them.
I love it when my Littlest says things like this to me still: