A hundred, or ninety.

I thought I’d wait 100 days. Back on February 10th, I thought that. It was a rainy day. A day the rain reminds you of a marina. Damp and grey in ways inland rains aren’t always.

I don’t eat potatoes often. I love them. In butter and salt. Roasted in oil and salt. Sliced and baked with cheese and butter. Mashed with heavy cream. Soup with cheddar and bacon. Gnocchi. I’m not sure there’s a way you can cook potatoes that I don’t salivate at.

There are a lot of things I love to eat that I don’t often. My body doesn’t love everything that I do, and I try my best to listen and respect its wishes.

But it’s Mother’s Day tomorrow. And mothering is a *thing*. So I’m indulging and will deal with the fallout in the days or weeks that follow.

And so, in the spirit of rebellion, of the personal and pensive sort, I dug potatoes. At ninety days. Any other heft they may have in ten days more I wouldn’t need, as more to eat would simply be prolonged temptation.

…I think this is fair to call prolonged temptation as it is.

I didn’t finish harvesting. The bucket was full.

I hope, today, tomorrow, and every day, your bucket is full. Full of fulfillment and hope. Full of rebellion and peace. Full of serenity and glee and so much in between. Fill up your bucket, however you need, but fill up your bucket indeed.

Maybe today.

Last year’s bounty. This year’s pot.

She started Saturday. He joined Sunday. I climbed aboard Tuesday. The youngest has stayed off the train.

Maybe today, I’ll get a call.

Maybe today I’ll find out we have It. I hope we do. I’d like to know. It’s mild for us, so far. Maybe today I’ll learn I can go back to my biggest gardens. Maybe today I’ll be able to tell grandparents they won’t miss two grandbaby birthdays in the same month. Maybe today I can set an appointment to give blood soon. Maybe today I can check on neighborhood needs for others and food bank volunteer spots.

Or maybe I won’t get a call. And I’ll wait till Monday.

And maybe that call won’t be positive.

And we’ll be just where we were after a week of tired coughing wondering and worry.

Fingers crossed.

Good morning, beautiful.

Some bacon, sweet peppers, and another “national yolk test” to see if we still like the eggs we regularly buy the most.

The nearest egg was the most affordable in the “all the good things” category. The palest was local and likely receives a lot more feed than nutrition from fields. The darkest yolk was also the most expensive, and not that much greater than our usual variety, so we’ll likely stay put for now.

I did learn that you can force a darker yolk by adding yellow-orange pigment to feed, so while we like to use it as a gauge on foraged and pastured hens, it’s not foolproof.

Rainbow Pico.

Rainbows have hit a new level of glory in our home.

First we had the usual childhood awe, fascination, and adoration of them. Like you do.

Then June came round and for some unknown (to me) reason, this was the year in which much of corporate America felt free, finally, to celebrate Pride month. This added to the rainbow fandom in my house and lead to heartening conversations. When asked by a wee one why there were suddenly rainbows everywhere, I found the answer coming from my mouth before trying to find age-appropriate words: people have decided that rainbows are a way to celebrate love – and that love between any person and any other person is worth being happy about.

From the mouths of babes: then why aren’t there this many rainbows every day? I want to open a year round shop called, “Every Rainbow Every Day” because every love is ok every day.

And so in our house, we celebrate rainbows every day, in every way. Last night’s rainbow?

Yellow pear tomatoes, sun gold tomatoes, black cherry tomatoes, and pink Arkansas traveler tomatoes from the garden with a white onion and green cilantro.