This is not my usual sort of post; in fact it has nothing to do with food. Rather, I would like to write about one perfect morning, perhaps the most perfect morning of my entire life.
When my parents were building our cottage in Friendship, Maine, back in 1979, I was about to turn 13. During its construction, we weathered all sorts of things, living as we did in our tents planted on the foundation. I hated it.
Our neighbors across the road (oh how I loved them: Margaret and Charlie Aleck) suggested to my mother that perhaps I would like to spend a night with them in their considerably more capacious abode instead of roughing it with my folks. Yes! Yes! I said yes! They had running water and a roof over their heads to further the idea.
So I slept in a particular room and woke up the next morning--I don't know where anybody was but I didn't hear a sound nor did I think or consider that anybody was near me. It was a beautiful day outside, I could see that through the window. I didn't have to pee, I wasn't hungry, I required nothing: I was of myself, solely. I was young. I pulled my copy of Bloodline by Mr. Sidney Sheldon from the floor and read for three out-of-pocket undisturbed hours until I finished this most incredible, page-turning novel at the ripe age of 13.
Baby and I have rented the same place across the road from my parents' place for the next two weeks and I found a paperback copy of Bloodline from amazon.com just like the one I had 30 years ago. I'll be re-reading it for sure, in that little room, older, maybe wiser, but probably never as perfect as I was on that single day, when I was ohh...so young.