The yellow cheese is an all-cow’s-milk Tomme, made back in May. It’s very buttery and melty, with a distinctive sharpness that all my Tommes seem to have. The white cheese is a goat cheese that was meant to be (don’t laugh) a Reblochon, but I never washed the rind, or really took care of it in any way, and it turned out to be this lovely, mildly goaty, somewhat meaty tasting cheese. Look at those different colors!


A beekeeping neighbor dropped off this gorgeous honey today. It looks like a jar full of sunlight, doesn’t it?

I have no idea what the new normal is, but I’m trying to find out! For now, it consists of sunny fall days, DH set up in his “office” on the front porch, so many friendly, kind, loving, concerned, and helpful friends, food—lots and lots of wonderful food, trips over the mountain to doctor’s offices, and long de-stressing walks along the river with Split, my faithful, neurotic Border Collie.

Mostly, these days, I’m full of gratitude for all we have. Thanks for everything, I have no complaints.

I’ve been planting tons of pansies—I got a lot on sale for very cheap. It’s so cheery in the winter during a mild spell to see a few bright flowers, but they really start to come into their own in late February and March. By April, they’re big colorful mounds, which can be a lifesaver in early spring!

Yesterday it snowed all day, never really accumulating much because of the warm ground, instead creating a cold, mucky mess. Suddenly it’s winter and I feel a need to either hibernate (in bed with a book and the covers pulled over my head) or migrate.  I’m not quite feeling the coziness yet…


Our Mother Who Art
in the kitchen
cooking us up
hallowed may we see
all that is
Your kingdom here
delivered into our hands
Your will in children
and trees leafing out
on earth
as if it were Heaven.

Give us this day
bread we could feed
the world
and snatch us bald-headed
if we try to swallow it all.

Don’t forgive us
till we learn it is all for giving.
That salve you’ve got in a pot
on the back of the stove
only heals when everybody has some.

And heed us not
if we believe You look like us
and love us best
and gave us the True Truth
with a license to kill Others
writ inside.
Deliver us from this evil.

For it is Yours,
this kitchen we call Universe
where you stir up our favorite treat,
the Milky Way,
folding deep into sweet
our little sphere
with its powerful glory
of rainforests
and oceans
and mountains in feather-boa mist
if we don’t blow it up
and ever
if we don’t tear it down

(Ah women
Ah children
Ah reckon She’s about fed up.
We better make room at the table
for everybody
before She yells – OUT!
and turns our table over,
before She calls it off
this banquet we’ve been hoarding
this paradise
we aim to save
with bombs.)

— George Ella Lyon