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Monday, May 19, 2014

Saturday night

The kitchen is warm, and my fingers smell spring-sweet from the basil I've pulled apart and dropped into the bowl.  On the counter rests the glass bowl of strawberries fresh from the garden.  Dogs brush against our feet as we layer vegetables, taste-test, adjust.  I want to capture this somehow, this perfect warm rest of cooking together, but I can't.  It is there, humming, and there is no perfect net.


Born bitter as a lemon but you must understand that you've been bringing me joy.

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