The stars are clear out here. A train runs through the centre a few times a day, blaring a horn as a warning to people who may be going from building to building by crossing the tracks. It’s a tiny village in a snowglobe, only the snow hasn’t come.
I haven’t been around this many people in years. I’ve long wondered what it’d be like to live this life one more time. To have rituals and theatre plans and regular friends. None of this is real, of course, but I don’t mind pretending if only for a little while.
Girlcave. Fucking awesome.
For groceries we drive to a farmer’s market in a nearby town. It’s an important little ritual, to support locally grown produce, to get meat that isn’t genetically modified and fruit that hasn’t been picked before it’s ripe so it can be shipped thousands of miles to a grocery store. This is eating well in such a different way than I’m used to, and every day it’s a little different. The vendors come and go, and farmers, who make their own beef patties and sausages, will change the spices used in their recipes.
Candied apple samples.
Applebutterapplebutterapplebutter. The man told us the story of how he grabbed the apples as they fell on the lawn, and how he didn’t hold back on the cinnamon and sugar in the recipe. I eat this every single day.
Pan seared, bone-in pork loin chop, paired with dark cherry sage butter, served with whipped potatoes and seasonal vegetables. Cooked just right with a bit of pink in the middle.
‘Merica, fuck yeah.