Paris was swell but Newbury is home.

 Home. Home. Now we are home. No fancy lights, fancy foods, and  fancy people.

Back Home. I can wear my oldest jeans with a torn t-shire and I am styling here.

Casual, and I don't mean business casual. I mean dressing for comfort, gardening, working with your hands and not styling. 

Home, back yard noise birds, occasional train whistling a pass deer, and prop planes flying overhead from Plum Island Airport. 

Trees are my neighbors, trees are my soul mates, and trees all around my yard. Each years the oaks gain more height and more stature in the tree world. The trees have grown in the 30 plus years that we have lived here. Each years a little more full sun is taken away from our plants. Each year we buy more shad resistant plants.

But home is good. Home is safe, quiet most times, and where I can be myself.

 

The French live to Eat and I Agree.

 Best ever hot fudge sunday in Honfleur Crepe Restaurant. The French do food so well. They never rush through their food. They appreciate the presentation, the smell, the texture, and the taste. Ah, they have honored food as a god given right and a thing of beauty.

In France, the would never ask you if you are finished with your meal in a restaurant. They would leave you alone with your empty expresso cub for hours. You end your meal at your own pace. Only when you ask for a check,   your server knows that you are ready to leave on your own terms. How civilized is that.

Don't rush your food, your service, sit back and savoir each and every bite, every taste to the fullest.