A Practically Perfect Day

I had the best day last week. 
First, I got a fat wedge of a hand-written letter in the post. 

I had forgotten the sneak-away-with-it pleasure a thick letter brings.  This one, from a loved one in Florida, lasted through a glass of Vinho Verde while I sat in a comfortable chair in the back yard and watched my daughters throw crepe-paper streamers over the swing set.

Then, my husband brought home a paper bag of vegetables that the parent of one of his students grew.

This is a beautiful sight, no?  I wanted to eat all of these, at the same time.  Figuring that if they ripened simultaneously they could be cooked and eaten the same, I chopped and tossed them into a pot with olive oil, salt and pepper.

While that cooked I went to check on the girls.  One quietly read a book on the sofa while the other had dragged her sleeping bag out to the yard and put herself to sleep.

The sight of her, cuddled down in a patch of sun on one of our last days of summer, made me happier than even snowflakes that melt on your nose and eyelashes.

I cut a few of the last sweet peas while she slept. 

She woke up thirty minutes later, sweet and happy and smelling of toasted baby skin.  We ate sitting on our back steps, in the sun, waiting for bats.  The tang of the tomatoes, the sweetness of the beets, the full meatiness of that red onion and the mellow bottom of the zucchini were amazing.  I had four helpings and then felt sad that there would be none left for lunch the next day.

These are a few of my favorite things.