Sharing stories of food stories we love.
You're home, finally. This morning feels like the distant past, like sipping your cup of coffee at 7 AM actually took place a week ago. You remember hitting snooze on the alarm once, no wait twice, and running a brush through your sleep-tangled hair. But the memory feels hazy.
The day started off gloomy. Under a gray sky, you trudged to work, thinking that airy linen t-shirts and bare legs and creamy almond milk iced lattes suddenly seem quite far away.
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Today was a brilliant, sunny 68 degrees. I woke up and walked to yoga class without a jacket. Ninety minutes later, I walked home, drenched in sweat and on a little bit of an exercise high. I confess that I might have given a slightly superior look to all those bleary-eyed people slowly waking up over coffee in the local diner. But to the people already lined up at my local bakery (the one with the EXCEPTIONAL scone-sized cookies), I gave them all a mental high five. Those people have their priorities in order: Warm cookie > commute.
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It's getting late in the day. The evening sun filters down in spirals and shafts of fading light. Soon, dusky shadows will appear. Right now the sky is suffused with pink, the sun melting in golden streaks into the rapidly oncoming dark.
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Nothing says summer like the smell of a campfire. Watching a fire burn is incredibly mesmerizing: the rapidly licking flames disappearing into the ether in a jumble of colors that turn from neon blue to deep red. Campfires were special occasions on the farm: we'd have our cookouts down by the first pond. My dad set up a small circle of weathered stones, and we’d trek down from the kitchen holding plates of burgers and homemade buns and squeeze bottles of ketchup.
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This weekend it snowed: fat, heavy flakes that pelted downwind and hit my car windshield with a satisfying splatter. I drove from New York to Philadelphia, and the sky turned from a faded gray to a darkly ominous slate to complete white-out. The rain started somewhere in New Jersey. Driving in the rain can be soothing, the rhythmic swooshing of the windshield wipers, the cozy cocoon of warmth in your car. I put on quiet music. My sister slept in the backseat, her hair rumpled, waking up every few minutes to watch the towns tick by: Edison, New Brunswick, South Orange.
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