And so the cold ungentle rains came. Washing the hills and banishing mosquitoes. In a giant aged vessel we nurtured our fire. We warmed our hands and scorched our dinner.
We were smug and snug and soon to be satiated.
There was rump and sirloin. Grass-fed and herbed. A golden disc of melting provolone.
Smoke wafted as water puddled. A scattering of salt as juices dripped. It was perfect, primal, perhaps even raw.
And clashed gloriously with a delicate watermelon chopped with rocket. Sprinkled with feta. Tossed with almonds.
And the piece de resistence? Sprog burnt marshmallows on a stake
As raindrops still linger under glass … reheated pastries the morning after from l.o.v.e.n
Greedy little fingers will attest…
Terrestrial Heaven. Goddess Moment people. Yes indeed.
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