let's have an end-of-summer cocktail party
Somehow, summer has slipped already into August, and I've been dragged along with it, dazily. In my mind I'm still stuck in the fresh-not-fried feel of June, but time has got the best of me again. I've been sweaty and in love.
Today, Kyle and I made bruschetta for lunch. Although I've been banned from touching the oven (no cookies? no banana bread? no cupcakes?!); I wrangled out a deal to use the "broil" setting for five minutes today. We used five petite tomatoes from our garden (our three giant tomato plants are flourishing with fruit, weighed down boughs bear tomatoes to fill my palms, still green and with such promise!), fresh basil (also from our garden, alas, not benefiting from the heat), balsalmic vinegar and freshly-minced garlic mixed together with the bleeding tomatoes, plus melting crumbles of goat cheese on toasted and olive oil smeared day old bread - 1 dollar for three loaves at Yang's Market.
This is is the first summer where I've been as lazy as I have been, for me. I've been inhaling books, eating the words from the spines, but it's August and I haven't even started House of Spirits yet. I have not written all 12 of my Lit journals. I have done no artwork to speak of. I did read three short stories by Daudet in French, and they were about goats getting eaten by wolves, filial suicides, and a Jonathan Edwards-worthy sermon, respectively. And I'm happy, and a little isolated, and missing Italy and wanting to live in Italy and wanting to study in Italy and wanting to go on another trip to Italy and wanting to leave Pennsylvania forever to live in Europe and happy.
Today, Kyle and I made bruschetta for lunch. Although I've been banned from touching the oven (no cookies? no banana bread? no cupcakes?!); I wrangled out a deal to use the "broil" setting for five minutes today. We used five petite tomatoes from our garden (our three giant tomato plants are flourishing with fruit, weighed down boughs bear tomatoes to fill my palms, still green and with such promise!), fresh basil (also from our garden, alas, not benefiting from the heat), balsalmic vinegar and freshly-minced garlic mixed together with the bleeding tomatoes, plus melting crumbles of goat cheese on toasted and olive oil smeared day old bread - 1 dollar for three loaves at Yang's Market.
This is is the first summer where I've been as lazy as I have been, for me. I've been inhaling books, eating the words from the spines, but it's August and I haven't even started House of Spirits yet. I have not written all 12 of my Lit journals. I have done no artwork to speak of. I did read three short stories by Daudet in French, and they were about goats getting eaten by wolves, filial suicides, and a Jonathan Edwards-worthy sermon, respectively. And I'm happy, and a little isolated, and missing Italy and wanting to live in Italy and wanting to study in Italy and wanting to go on another trip to Italy and wanting to leave Pennsylvania forever to live in Europe and happy.