The mess on the dining room table. Stacks of books (recent acquisitions), an assortment of papers and the olive container, still sitting there from my lunch.

One of my very favorite things to eat.

We went a little crazy at the Whole Foods antipasto bar.

Philadelphia does a lot of things right when it comes to food, but as far as sandwiches are concerned, I’ll always be partial to the West Coast-style ones I grew up with. If you’ve spend any time in California or Oregon, you’ll know what I’m talking about. Sturdy whole grain bread (or slabs of tangy sourdough). Just a bit of grainy mustard and the barest dab of mayo. Roast turkey breast (at least when I’m doing the ordering). Muenster or swiss cheese. Lettuce, tomato, cucumber, sprouts, thinly sliced red onion and avocado.

I’ve had a hankering for this sandwich for weeks now, but I’ve always been under the impression that it was not to be found anywhere near my workplace. Happily, I was able to get satisfyingly close at the sandwich bar in my office building today. No sprouts or avocado, but nearly everything else. And best of all, for less than $7.

Despite the fact that this milk is from Lancaster County and says Paradise, PA right there on the bottle, the mountains and evergreens always make me think of the Pacific Northwest.

I woke up late and under-motivated today. Instead of charging through my work day resistance (I picture myself as football player, jumping through a paper banner and out onto the field) and leaping into the shower, I found myself wandering from room to room, taking in all the household tasks that needed to be done and wishing for a morning where I could actually attend to them.

In a useless bid to delay leaving home for a few extra moments, I did a sinkful of dishes and pointedly ignoring the cantaloupe on the counter. It is desperate for attention and is beginning to develop tender, sinking spots where it once had a firm, taut rind. Chances are good that it will sit there until totally boggy and fermented, at which point I will finally be able to throw it away. I can’t bear to toss it while it has some promise.

I imagine life as a farm wife, living out on the prairie, each day filled with a rotating assortment of cooking, chores and sleep. I see her standing in the doorway, contemplating her only view, where the land and the sky merge and vanish beyond the point where the eye can see. I envy the home-centered nature of her life, all the while knowing that she must have been deathly weary of that unbroken vista. I am attracted by the peaceful sameness of her days, but only as a relief from the busy-ness of mine.

I am roused from my dream as the radio flips from Morning Edition to BBC Newshour. Inescapably late now, I head for the shower and begin the day.

It was a such a grey day that the view from our living room window desperately needed pairing with a flash of green.