The weekend went by in a blink. Blink.
Our first batch of pesto, this summer. 75 cubes. Concentrated. Somehow, though, I feel like it's not enough. We only used a third of our crop. We're still eating last years pesto.
Laundry list (the short list):
(insert peach galette)
The peaches were always large. The skin always dark, often dented. Fuzzy. Fuzzy.
I never cleaned a peach. The fuzz would hit my tongue. I'd wince. The sweet juice would cleanse my taste buds, my eyes would brighten. Please make this peach last forever. One, maybe two. The point of the pit jabbing the roof of my mouth.
Dinner of aglio e olio, caprese and baguette.
"We'll have to do the cabinets tomorrow." I said.
"Just a regular coffee today." I said.
"You want a pastry?" Roberto asked.
"I will if you are." I said.
"Yeah." He said, knodding.
"If they don't have any mini pan au chocolat, I'll have a mini croissant." I said, straining to see what was on display.
"Okay, why don't you grab a table." He said.
"Okay." I said.
The thought of pasta fagioli with northern beans and zucchini followed by tender rabbit (cooked with a little tomato and peppers—both green and red), and a salad of tomato, cucumber and basil kept my mind occupied as we crouched and reached, re-lined and wiped, organized and chucked out, the contents of our kitchen cabinets.
"We should go over. Is it time to go over? I'm hungry. Let's go over." I said.
Zara ran to greet us at the door.
"I just dropped the pasta." She said.