Into a sea

of grilled processed cheese food sandwiches, water pressed turkey and stove top, pre poached chicken breast w/canned pineapple and green peppers, and pork alla camp we boated in the fresh fruits and vegetables from down the road at Moulton Farm. We sliced up yellow peppers, cut the tails and greens from gold and amber carrots, shivered over the flat parsley leaves, and ate it all before we stirred up stone ground yellow corn into polenta and topped it with a salad of snappy arugula leaves tossed w/ New Hampshire cheddar, Montevarchi extra virgin olive, lemon and salt. We had a platter of blue, blue blueberries and red, red raspberries and then dove into roasting red peppers, slender eggplants, pale green tiny zucchini, cloves of garlic, and heavy red tomatoes separately and finishing them by braising them together w/ a spill of the tomato juice that ran over our fingers as we pulled the seeds from the tomatoes. We made a warm potato salad w/caramelized shallots and fried basil and string beans still wearing their tails. We spread sweet butter on baguette and covered every inch w/paper thin radishes. We boiled eggs for exactly nine minutes and dropped them into and ice bath, we made omelettes w/ leftover ratatouille, frittatas with sauteed shitake, and rolled out gnocchi dressed w/a browned butter, fresh sage and smashed, fresh to bursting with everything you hoped a garlic clove would be, sauteed to barely golden. We were meant to have no more than ten but finished with the chowder and desserts to a crowd of 32. How are you going to say no? People in their seventies wanted to cook. People under double digits were asking if I couldn’t make an excuse and let them be a witness. We threw our hands up in happiness, we only cried a little bit, we lost a minimal number of potatoes browning in a pan on a 360 turn and we ate. May all of that only grow.

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