August 11, 9:08 PM

Tonight we ate a salad of fresh greens, red onions, red beets, goat cheese, satsuma, and pulled chicken. I made four oblong pieces of sourdough toast, spread butter over them until it melted into the tiny fissures and cracks, then dusted each of them heavily with garlic powder and flecks of sea salt. Said to J that sourdough is both a boon to my mental health and somehow a symbol of home, even though in my home, the one that was anyhow, no one ate proper bread, the type made with a starter, kneaded by hand. Despite this, I think of places I’ve known, Vermont mainly, where food ways are richer and craftsmanship seems to hold strong. Feel the call of it, the lapping waters, the rubbery corn, the green hills, the muck and the fallen leaf.

I am very tired this week, worn out by the spinning wheels of time and the way things go, the way they scatter, the way the seasons seem as if they will never arrive, then arrive all at once to depart so soon. Dreams of the Champlain Valley back east, t…