I am about to embark on the most ironic of retreats. I will be off the vehicular grid in a wealthy suburb of NYC. With no way to get around, except by foot on shoulder-less roads, I am packing a healthy quantity of food for a month's stay. But I've never packed for this long before. Embedded in the grid. I'm reminded of Marie of 66squarefeet, with her sumptuous feasts in the deserts of Namibia. How do you shop for four weeks and cook well? Where do the vegetables come from? Shall I forage on the National Park lands? OR better yet, raid the backyard potagers of the neighbors like some kind of forgotten sasquatch. Wouldn't that be something.
My trusty apple gets boxed tonight for tomorrow's travel. I've sent posts for the weekend, then back on line this Monday evening. Yes, embedded and on line, but off-the-grid. I will be in touch.
I will miss the hay day of late May in the garden. The blooms of course, but also the changeover from peas and greens to tomatoes and beans. All that I leave in the capable hands of my lovely wife. There's no one better to trust the growing to, she can do it all with a song and a smile. Though I think the plants will miss my gripe and crank, really -they will.