. My dreams are full of visitors... Milo, Danielle, Anastasia, a seamstress.
. Even though it’s going be a scorcher (a phrase I’m sure I’ve never said outloud), I open the windows. I am craving morning air and birdsong with my coffee.
. Handsomely flakey, I tell her.
. It takes 16 minutes to pass the last stop light. 17 minutes before the road switches from four lanes to two. The curvy part always threatens to make me car sick.
. The pigs try to take a bath in their drinking water. There are too many people here. I drown out their conversations by eating a bag of kettle chips while scouting a quiet place to do some reading and daydreaming. I’m in luck. It seems most people don’t care to leave the village area. I head towards the creek.
. I clear away some dried leaves and try not to notice the cobwebs under the bench. It’s just me, some birds, and the sound of water rushing to another destination. Walnuts fall with a thud.
. Bright green Osage oranges everywhere. They float down the creek like oversized, knobby tennis balls. I pick one up and study the tiny snails snacking on it. I wish I, too, could have a snack right now.
. Laurie Colwin is why I can’t, in good conscience, eat leftovers when there are radishes and cauliflower florets hanging on for dear life in the crisper. I reach in to grab the bunch of radishes only to discover the green tops have turned into sludge. I consider this and throw them in the sink for a good scrub. I’m committed now.
. Sweet potatoes go in the oven. Chicken thighs and “born-again” radishes go into a skillet with generous amounts of salt + pepper. The pitiful cauliflower florets go in salty, boiling water where they will eventually be puréed. It will be a miracle if I don’t get dysentery from this meal. I gulp back a Spanish red in hopes of fortifying my digestive system.
. Butter, lots of butter.