Butter. Flour. Sugar. Salt.
I sit for hours on our front steps, the French lavender bush draped across my lap, watching the bees dance over the blooms, legs laden with pollen. Bubbling like a fish tank, these workers harvest with purpose, never stopping to acknowledge my presence. I watch them glide over the blooms, occasionally darting across my face to the rosemary bush, avoiding the bumblebees that also feed on the purple flowers.