From Brooklyn to Baltimore & Sunday Supper

Merci.

De rein.

...

I hunched and squinted. I pressed play again and again. No matter how many times I looked over, looked over, looked over, it continued to vibrate and rattle. That damn painters tape worked three hours ago, why isn't it working now? Do re-in...de reeyen...duh ray on...ugh. I can't hear myself think.

Apple > sleep.

AC off.

...

Roberto made frittata. Zucchini and potato. Three eggs. It's more about the filling than the egg, frittata. Slid onto a plate. Covered with another plate.

I prepped salad. Oak leaf and other from the garden. Rinsed four times. Cucumber, tomato, carrot, red onion. Covered. Into the fridge.

Red sauce. Basil from the garden. On the stove.

...

From Brooklyn they brought bread, fresh from the bakery this morning. Two large loaves. $3 each. Unbelievable (don't get me started on Baltimore bread—sore subject). Roasted ceci and 90% dark  from the Chelsea Market. We've been away from New York City, Brooklyn, far too long. I wish we had gone this weekend, I had said again and again and again. I was a broken record before, during and after. I hope we go soon...but, I've already said that.

Just a three hour drive from Brooklyn. They made great time.

Roberto dropped the pasta at 15 minutes to 1:00.

By 1:00 there were four bowls filled with ziti and homemade sauce, a pile of spring onions, freshly grated cheese and two bottles of red open on the table.

By 1:08 we were clearing bowls, tossing salad, slicing frittata, reaching for bread, and jabbing olives with fork tines.

By 1:45 we were cracking open peanuts and spitting cherry pits onto our plates.

By 1:50 we were opening the bag of roasted ceci.

By 2:00 the dishwasher was loaded, the coffee was brewing, and Roberto's parents had made their way back across the street with a bag of cherries.

"They're already washed." I said.

...

Dark rain clouds overhead, but nothing substantial falling. Wind, birds, police helicopters, screaming kids, random firecrackers, a communion prosession down our street...a chaotic clusterfuck (pardon my French) of activity.

Sunday.