Sometimes, it’s pouring down rain and the temperature drops to 48 and your dog, who was having a lot of fun playing in the mud with the other pups, decides she’s too cold to lay on the floor so she whines and shakes. And at that time, the only warm, soft spot you have to offer is there inside your sweatshirt. But you’re arranging flowers and tending to garland and sweeping fallen petals for a dinner party that’s happening in three hours in a space on the new farm that has never been gathered at, let alone eaten in. So there you are filling cut crystal cruets with numb fingers while your animal has her head shoved in your armpit.

I call it, flower power.