Potatoes rough and fragrant from the now-sleeping beds, boiled, fried in butter, with pepper and salt. Eggs gathered in a basket from the United Nations of chickens, green and tan, blue and pink, freckled, and brown. Folded with onions braided onto a string. A few cherry tomatoes, wet and burst from the rain. And cheese, melted, inside.
Also kale dark and ferrous, with red russian veins.
Dessert was a cookieâ€”bought, not home-grown. Baked and sold at Friday market by my neighbour, Joy. With spices and cinnamon, pecans and seeds.
I dined alone, on the misty blufftop, to the sound of the waves.
I give thanks.