Blueberry Season
We receive a hearty “Welcome, hullo! Glad you’re here!” from the blueberry man, who is sitting in a plastic patio chair next to an old truck filled with boxes and buckets.
We receive a hearty “Welcome, hullo! Glad you’re here!” from the blueberry man, who is sitting in a plastic patio chair next to an old truck filled with boxes and buckets.
Dear First Kiss,
Thank you for the pause and rephrase that changed your “can I kiss…” to “can we kiss?”
Grasp, carry, touch, step, tug, swallow.
Last week, I spent an hour and nineteen minutes with an onion. Inspired by Robert Capon’s twenty-two-page chapter on the theological implications of mindful onion contemplation, I came prepared for a reflective and mystical experience.
There are seventeen weeks until summer—take the time to thank a local grower, and spend some quality time with an onion. Warm weather will be here soon.
Our archaeology professor was a young, soft-spoken postdoc who lectured with a thick Italian accent in a lilting, almost sing-song way: “The Etruscan potter realized the bowl from native clay.”
Perhaps answers come in the weight. Listen, lean in, linger. There is something here in this suspended scribble.
Gather the large stock pot (it’s in the basement), a pillowcase from the linen closet, sugar from the pantry, the glass mixing bowl, and a yellow packet of yeast from the refrigerator door.
My mom’s bread pudding is tried and true comfort food: warm, spongy mush flecked with cinnamon and sprinkled with raisins.
And for twenty-five minutes I am warm and more alive
than the seven hours and thirty-five minutes between walls and cabinets three floors above.
Following is a stratigraphic analysis of the Reminders app on my iPhone—my August 2017 recollections of three past years of reminders that were once “new and urgent.”
There comes a point in Tinder messaging where you’ve proven yourselves worthy of exchanging actual text messages.