I'm making risotto. Lynn declared it so last Tuesday, after she'd made a stock with the bones of the turkey she'd spatchcocked for smoking on the 4th of July. She came out to the living room, excited, cup and spoon in hand. "Taste this..." Yum. Field and forest, herbs and spices sparking across my tongue, a living taste, redolent of that wild bird ancestor of the factory formed fowl that'd been sacrificed for our holiday meal. Eyes gleaming, she said, "Mushroom risotto!" She was absolutely right. I could taste it in that broth, how it craved the mushrooms.
like I’m right there with you, Lynn and Josie. Enjoying your company every minute. You’ve also brought back memories of my Mom’s potato pancakes. Those were the kind she made, and now that I have the recipe from you, they’re on my list to make.
Thank you! I love your comment. My habit, once I've published an essay, is to read through it for the first time as a reader, rather then the writer. On this one, when I did that read I felt I'd done a good job of bridging that gap between reader and writer and your comment validates that.
Thank you for your beautiful writing. It feels
like I’m right there with you, Lynn and Josie. Enjoying your company every minute. You’ve also brought back memories of my Mom’s potato pancakes. Those were the kind she made, and now that I have the recipe from you, they’re on my list to make.
Thank you! I love your comment. My habit, once I've published an essay, is to read through it for the first time as a reader, rather then the writer. On this one, when I did that read I felt I'd done a good job of bridging that gap between reader and writer and your comment validates that.
Hey, I’m writing from the Lou as well. Nice to connect here!