On our trip through New England, Lu was pretty patient in the back seat of the minivan. She had books to read, and books to listen to (may I recommend Kate Winslet reading Matilda? Oh goodness. We drove through an inky black night in Maine, listening to this for the first time.), princess dolls to dress, and fierce scribbling in sketchbooks at all hours of the day. (“I’m a writer like you, Mama!”) But after every hour or so, she called out to us from the back and said, “Can we please stop and take a walk? My butt hurts!”
This kid likes to move.
About every other time, she shouted, almost pleaded, “Please, can we just find a farm and pick some carrots?”
And so we did.
We’ve been home for a few days now. We returned to the west coast loaded with new memories, suitcases full of homemade apple butter, buckwheat flour from Maine, and dirty clothes, and a newfound respect and awe for this country we call home. We experienced more adventures, met more friends, and dreamed more dishes than we could possibly ever write down. What we didn’t have —— it became clear after a few days —— was the time to write a post every day, about every potluck, documenting this road trip we’ll never forget. After the piece I wrote about the Hudson Valley potluck, I looked up at the green fields of Vermont as we sped past them in our blue minivan, and I realized I wanted to wait until we were home to write up these moments.
Today, we just started feeling as though we live in this time zone again. It’s time to write. Let’s go.