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Farm Dinner

Last night I gave my two farm Indian employees and their families dinner at my house. There were five of us adults, one teenager and three small ones. We sat at two joined tables, the adults drinking wine and the others fruit juices.

Unlike my neighbor Bob, I am limited in cooking skills. Bob, a part-time bachelor, can create sauces which have those who don’t know that he hails from Seattle, believing his skill to have been taught by an Italian mother.

My main course for the farm family was a seafood mix with pasta, flavored with Old Bay, a favorite from the days when I lived on the Chesapeake Bay. For desert I had “baked” two Betty Crooker cake mixes topped by marsh mallows which created sticky goo as they melted in the oven.

Casilda the farm manager with a bowl of her spinach like dish which she makes from the inner leaf of dacin

And Then There Is Hope.

On The Slowing

Last Friday, I spent all morning on the farm planting butternut, spaghetti, and cha cha squashes. For five hours I sat in the dirt, dug a small hole, and plopped in two seeds alongside Jake. We planted and scooted. Planted and scooted.

After a while, he looked up and told me, "You know, I could do this forever."

I knew what he meant. I looked up, saw the bright green trees towering over us.

"What do you dream of doing?" he asked.

This. And I imagine a desk facing a window. The room itself is part of a renovated barn or schoolhouse or something. Outside are trees and water. A pond. No, a creek. I have a cup of tea next to my computer and I've spent the morning writing. In the afternoons, I work in my vegetable garden. Then, I come inside, shower, and cook dinner with fresh basil and leeks.

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