Thick clouds, low 50s

This morning I went to the Crumpet Shop in Pike Place Market for groats. The word, I learned, is related to grits, but the hulled oats taste more like hominy. You can get a huge bowl with frothy milk, currents, and honey for a few dollars. I brought Sophie’s World to breakfast, a book that I really should have read in college.

I have a philosophy minor and am ashamed to say I remember so little…Plato’s cave, Cratilus’ finger wave, Occam’s Razor, Foucault’s Panopticon, really basic logic. So this book about a 15 year-old girl who takes an Alice in Wonderland dive into the history of philosophy is surprisingly good for me.

I was half-reading, half-watching the owner of the Crumpet Shop, a woman in her 50s with pink-tipped wispy hair, pouring batter into molds and popping out hot crumpets in a rhythm you only get while working with your hands…crocheting through the loop, scrubbing the toilet, pressing leaves.

Then for this second, everything became mythic. The groats were manna, the book was sacred, the baker’s mixing and shifting was wind. Typical Seattle gray gave space to flannel brown, red, and green.