earl grey–chocolate bundt cake

On weekends I wake up much earlier than necessary, stumbling from my bed to the bathroom, right to the stove to start the kettle. While the world is still sleeping I stand there, waiting, and staring blankly at the kettle of which I see two in my bleary-eyed stupor. It’s warm in my room; I run a space heater, even in April, to make up for bad windows that let in cold wind. The heatless kitchen seems cold in comparison and I stand pulling and clutching at the ripped arms of my shirt. I’m constantly fixing for heat, no matter the season, and I have an easy way to satisfy this itch: boiling water. Suddenly I’m shocked out of my trance with a whistle, and I return to my warm room with my warm tea. I carefully lie down on my side a while in my warm bed, clutching and sipping and thinking my morning thoughts, reflecting on my dreams and, most recently, nightmares of the evening’s rest. And with the last tepid sip, I am warm and clear and ready.

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