Roast squash. Bake pie. Repeat. And Adam had pumpkin pie for breakfast every day this week, and my hands stayed busy.
I thought that tonight I would be in the mood for something else. Because today we drove to the airport. For a month, he will be there, we will be here. And that is something different.
That in mind, I roasted a chicken with lots of butter and wine. Slow, until its legs bones were brown and barely holding on. I thought I would eat it from the pan, painfully hot, with a salad of dark bitter greens (if I could find them) and vinegar, lots of vinegar.
I did eat the chicken from the pan, painfully hot. With Margot on my hip, asking for all the best pieces (the oysters, tender bits of leg, the dark bits that cling to the back). But, anyway, I didn’t eat it with bitter greens, missing my mate. I ate it with sweet winter spinach and good spirits.
Because Adam arrived at his destination and gave me a call while eating the trail mix they left in his temporary kitchen. And suddenly it didn’t feel like we were apart. It felt like we were beginning something, making something.
And that is a good feeling.