At Table. In Garden.

At Table. In Garden.

Saturday Evening

...

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.

Black-Eyed Susan's

...

Passed down from grandmom to mom. From mom to me.