Willow, my farmers' market friend, shuttled two dozen beautiful eggs into my hands this morning. Harking back to yester-week's Maine afternoons, I washed and dried them, hunched over the laundry room sink. Washing eggs is meditative, sort of like stirring a pot of risotto (minus the poop chunks). Here, the tap water is warm and my fingers didn't freeze by the thirteenth egg.
Tomato soup's on the stove; delacata squash are rolling all over the countertop; garlic chives and cilantro sit upright in glasses, perfuming the kitchen.
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