As I write this, I’m sitting on my deck at a table with my
husband. Train’s “Hey, Soul Sister” is on Pandora,” and I’ve given it a thumbs
up. Pandora is still learning me, and maybe I led her astray when I added Floyd
Cramer. Once in a while, his melodious piano playing soothes, but it’s a sunny
Saturday, I live in suburbia, and we need something to drown out the sound of
weed whackers. It allows us to pretend we’re the only ones here.
The neighbor dogs must be in because I don’t hear them.
They bark shrilly if they see us sitting on our deck. Sometimes, if I say,
“Hush Hoppy, hush Snowball, they will quiet down -- at least until Smitty Kitty
appears. He likes to enrage the yip yaps by sitting at the corner of the yard,
just inside our fence in their full view. Slowly, he’ll groom, washing ears and
face, tail swishing in rhythm with their canine protests.
It’s a rare August day in the Blue Ridge Mountains – low
humidity, a light breeze, sky as blue as the ridge line that surrounds my
house. This is good tomato growing weather, and the garden has been bountiful.
From inside my house, the scent of my fresh picked San Marzano tomatoes drying
slowly in a low oven wafts out. It’s sweet and savory at the same time. I will pack
them in extra virgin olive oil for future salads and pizzas. I’ve already put
up a jar to take to my dear friend, Carol, tomorrow. These, now drying, I will
keep.
Later today, we’ll fill the air with the scent of steak teriyaki,
grilled to perfection on a bright blue Weber. Sauté the fresh wild mushroom mix we
bought at this morning’s farmer’s market, roast corn shared from a co-worker’s garden.
Simple pleasures – we want what we have.
