We woke up in Portsmouth, a little tired, and very much grateful.
We had been on the road, driving around New England in a minivan crammed with fresh vegetables, food from our sponsors for our guests, and a whole lot of memories in our heads. The potluck tour (round one) had been like nothing else we had experienced. And we three were doing it together, meeting new people and eating good food everywhere we went.
But we were a little tired that morning. The night before, we had met a few people at a lovely old women’s club in Portsmouth, at a small gathering. There was miscommunication, phone calls I should have made but we were in Italy, and some mis-steps. So when we pulled up to the place, we weren’t even sure that anyone would come. But we sat around, sipping soup that tasted more like autumn than summer, and talked with the women who had arrived. Tell truth, I was glad for the quiet time. I have never talked so much as I did those two weeks. I had to be on every night.
(This weekend, friends of ours asked Lu how she liked our trip around New England. “Fun!” she shouted. And then she grew quiet and said, “It was a little boring, though, because my mama talked about the cookbook every night.” Fair enough, kid.)
This breakfast, outside a little cafe, was a relief. Danny read princess stories to Lucy while I ate my corned beef and hash, gulping down hot coffee and resting my voice. We had one more potluck to go.