Saturday Check-In – A Higher Perch, Purple Cauliflower, and Pup Cups

This morning, Baby Robin was back—and looking a little more grown up already.

I didn’t see how it happened, but suddenly there it was: perched on a low, bare tree, holding its ground with the confidence of a bird who’s figuring things out. No frantic wing flaps, no ground scurries—just sitting calmly, upright, and higher than I’ve seen it before. Progress.

It stayed there most of the morning, observing the world like a tiny monarch surveying its kingdom. I have no idea where its new hiding place is now—mom and dad robin are keeping that secret well-guarded—but their swoops and chirps suggest it’s still nearby. I check in, try not to hover (literally), and whisper my encouragement from a distance. You’re doing great, little one.

The rest of this Saturday has been breezy and easy. Kenobi and I made our usual trip to 7 Brew, where he was treated like royalty. Their pup cups are complimentary—a glorious dollop of whipped cream topped with a biscuit—and Kenobi savored every bite with the dignity of a seasoned café-goer. I sipped my latte and shared a few bites of whipped cream because I’m not made of stone.

We also stopped by the farmers’ market, where I hit the jackpot: eggplant, heirloom tomatoes, and purple cauliflower. That last one? I have no idea what makes it purple. I probably should care, but honestly, I don’t. It roasts beautifully next to the white variety and makes for the kind of side dish that looks like you know what you’re doing, even when you don’t.

The sourdough vendor was missing, which was a blow—especially because she makes a cheddar sourdough that elevates avocado toast to sacred status. But all was not lost. Another vendor had fennel, and suddenly the world felt balanced again.

I usually slice up the fennel bulb and sauté it with kale and onions—perfect with fish. But I’ve always ignored the feathery greens, unsure of what to do with them. Today, though, I’m determined to find out. Something about their wild, wispy nature feels like an invitation to experiment.

So, the bird is climbing, the garden is recovering, Kenobi is thriving, and Saturday feels like a soft breath in the middle of summer. It’s the kind of day where nothing monumental happens, but everything feels quietly good.

And I’m holding out hope for a front-row seat when that little robin takes its first flight.