sweetcomice and friends

PearWelcome to the world from my window. We’ll begin with a story, told in episodes, with time and room for all things light and dark, meaningful and uncertain…….

The last pair of guests has disappeared into the dark along the poplar lined path to the parking lot with fourteen relieved Madeira and raisin sauced meatballs scooped into a white take out box along with two French rolls, a half bottle of burgundy tucked under his arm.

As the clatter of chocolate and cream encrusted cake plates piling into the dishwasher goes on above our heads through the open kitchen window, we slip off our shoes, pull a banquet cloth from the final empty table and wander down into the garden, past the heirloom rose display that is only more spectacular in the dark for the rise and evaporation of dew scented with a predominance of rasp berried rose.

We reach our destination, the soft hollowed out grass between rows of tall junipers ending in two huge black iron Labrador retrievers which hide those looking for sanctuary with fierce barking faces. It is dark here, the deep gray of old unmoved shadows. The cloth  billows out cloud-like,  then comes to rest on the ground. Out of one side pocket of my apron comes folded linen napkins, two sterling salad forks, and out of the other, a pair of champagne flutes.

You have managed the short hike balancing a flat basket on one arm, a bottle of brut carefully suspended from the fingers of your other hand so the liquid barely moved as you walked, few bubbles lost carelessly. We sit down cross legged across from each other, napkins in our laps, the basket, bottle, cutlery and flutes at our knees.

All day, as I moved from one tree shaded table to the next……

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