WEEKEND POST 148

From the Author

After a very long, very tiring, very emotionally + mentally taxing week travelling for work, THIS is the kind of package I like to come home to! I spy a couple Riojas, a Viognier, some deep and dark Pinot Noirs + a surprise Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Thank you, Last Bottle.

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WEEKEND POST 147

From the Author

North Carolina generally dances to its own finger-plucked tune for juuuust about everything, and seasonality is without exception. Yet, I’m beginning to sense that the intense summer sun is finally fading.

No less humid, mind you, but I welcome any respite offered. Then again, with the decline in daylight hours comes the decline of the harvest. Our fresh Celeste figs + yellow pear tomatoes already slipped away, and the basil is soon to follow. Sure will miss those summer garden gems.

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WEEKEND POST 146

From the Author

After weeks away, meals at home are always that much more appreciated — even if it’s frozen, container-shaped leftovers. Don’t you agree?

Lucky for us we had two generous servings of Grandma Marie’s split pea pork hock soup my mom sent us back to NC with many months ago, quietly waiting in the deep-freeze to provide comfort, memories of home + family, and brightness to an ominous-looking afternoon last weekend. Even luckier is that soups like this get better with time, and reheat very well.

A warm flame, a splash of homemade chicken stock, and a few besan crackers on the table. Very lucky us.

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WEEKEND POST 145

From the Author

“What is a weed? A plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered.”
— Ralph Waldo Emerson, ca. 1878

When it comes to our yard, weed control isn’t the occasional battle — it’s all-out war. Despite the terrible quality of our soil, there is no shortage of seeds being blown in or washed up from heavy winds and powerful rainstorms we’re accustomed to ten months out of the year. And for every one that germinates and is eventually plucked out, another three take root.

I’m typically not very forgiving of things that grow where they should not be, but there are those few that I, probably in folly, allow to live, even encourage. Like this little flowering vine currently trailing at the base of our magnolia tree. Or a similar vine that twirled up the main trunk of our fig tree, with its curly-cue tendrils and dainty white flower bunches. Or the wild grains that shoot up in clumps, a golden reminder of Midwestern fields in fall.

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