Friday, late

It is the first time this year that I throw charcoal down and light up the grill. Grilled chicken, marinated in a summery vinaigrette and sauced over with tiny tomatoes, grilled corn, grilled avocado for the salad. And, too, I open Sorede rose wines. Not from this year -- I brought nothing back this year -- but from years past, saved for the day when I would have people here who love rose wine as much as I do.










We sit out on the porch from the time of bright sunshine, until the last bit of light has faded, moving seamlessly from one plate of food to the next (garden rhubarb buttermilk cake for dessert), from one topic to the next, from one hour to the next. Ed comes out to eat with us and I am sure he has some degree of amazement that anyone can talk this much at a meal, or maybe he doesn't -- maybe he's seen this before, this stream of words that comes from friends living too far apart and relying for too long on scant email messages to catch up on what's really cookin' inside the head, inside the soul.





The porch accommodates my solo hours of work, and too, breakfast, always that wonderful breakfast where Ed and I nibble on fruits and launch plans for the day, and now this -- a summer meal when Barbara and Diane come to town.