Pork chop

I used to carry home with me, like a turtle carries its shell. From one place to another. I was a human RV.
But today, as I was driving over the mountain to Camucia to buy more groceries, I got homesick. I had to pull over to the side of the road, because my eyes started to flood.
I rerouted up to Cortona for an ice cream cone for lunch at Snoopy’s. Then was back on track to get my 10 liters of wine pumped, a piece of Gorgonzola dolce for my pasta, and back over the mountain to Trabalza for pork chops, cut in front of me, the way they do.
Even though it is raining, if I shove the chimney of the grill just outside the overhang from the tobacco tower, I should be all right.
We are doing a lemon tart for dessert with just the tiniest bit of mascarpone stirred into the curd.

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