O ye.

Today, I made myself a reminiscent breakfast. Homemade hashbrowns with butter, onion, celery, paprika, oregano and basil. Lightly fried eggs, runny, with bright yellow yolks spilling into the potatoes once freed. Mayo on the side. This is a fairly time intensive breakfast, with potatoes being cut and boiled before they hit the hot pan and their vegetable accompaniment, but the time it takes is part of the luxury of this particular morning meal.

As I cut and cooked in my own kitchen, CBC on in the background, I thought about all the times I made this very breakfast in the kitchen at Atangard. Snippets of conversation and the sounds - footsteps on hardwood halls, doors opening and closing, yelled greetings and goodbyes and so much laughter - come back to me easily. But, more than that, the faces of all those breakfasts comes back. Mostly, I remember the smiles, all bathed in that yellow, windowless light, reflected off Ikea cupboards. They almost seem saintly, or at the very least, beautiful portraits in motion. Though I do not exclude myself from feelings of frustration in that same kitchen, I remember the warmth so much more; the conversations, encouragement and nourishment that I consistently found there. Time must be working its magic, because I can think about it now without feeling very sad and with more more thankfulness and joy than longing.

Into the very kitchen.

Marisa and Lisa, in "that atrium".

Tiff, Beth and Soph.

We leave for planting on Saturday. I am excited and eager for the season to begin, to see familiar faces and meet new ones. To help Tim. To learn a new job and role. To have energy for encouragement and cheer, which I struggle to find when being head cook. I am excited for it all.

Until next time,
Elizabeth