At Table. In Garden.
I opened the ice box only to find the lid covering the pizza dough ajar. With hours to go before dinner I was feeling a bit nervous. I could've placed it into a larger bowl, but I punched it down instead.
"We can eat spicy pasta every night." I said.
Farmer's Market, Sunday
Market raspberries, $3.
I had picked out two containers and handed them over to the woman helping me. "Do you want to just dump them into the bag?" I asked.
"They'll get mashed." She said.
I was hoping she'd say that.
She placed the two containers side by side into the bag, gingerly. I handed her the money.
"I don't know how other people do it, but that's how I do it." She said, passing me back some change.
Market peaches, $4 (small) and $5 (large)
"These are ready to eat. So get at'em." The young woman said, placing the softball sized peaches into the bag.
"They'll be gone by tomorrow." I said smiling.
Market tomatoes, $5.
I can't resist.
Every day I look. Every day.
We don't need scones. I don't need to make scones.
I made scones. Market raspberry and chocolate scones.
Passed down from grandmom to mom. From mom to me.