Finally managed to download a couple years' worth of photos from my phone. Thought I'd chronicle a few adventures in a single photo.
Like, a poutine lunch in Toronto...
Such great memories in that phone.
The last three weeks have been a test of my patience. And a test of my ability to persevere. A coworker asked this week how to spell "perseverance" and I had to laugh at how it's become an overwhelming theme in my life lately. The Husband and I both have been traveling more than we have been home. It takes a toll eventually. I found myself arriving home from the airport late one night last week to an empty apartment and an even emptier fridge. I admit that I stood in the kitchen and ate heated up dim sum from the freezer at 10:30pm. Not my proudest moment. And the heartburn after wasn't so fun either. Though it did keep me up late enough to watch Dirty Dancing all the way through for the hundredandseventh time. "I carried a watermelon?!" Love it.
It is wintery cold and raining in Sydney tonight, at the end of a chilly, dark weekend. I have been so homesick this weekend, which is ridiculous. Ridiculous because I don't currently have another home to be homesick for. Every once in a while, I struggle with this expat life. It's Memorial Day weekend back in the US and the internets are full of barbecue plans and beach going. We have our share of beach weekends here, but it's strange to be rugging up for winter when friends and family are enjoying summer back 'home.' I'd much rather be admiring my garden in the long summer sun of June.


















"Spaghetti del mare," she said, coming through the door, "from the sea."
In the large, wide blue bowl, swirls of thin noodles wove their way between dark black shells and bits of red tomato.
"Breathe first," Charlie told him, "eyes closed." The steam rose off the pasta like ocean turned into air.
"Clams, mussels," Tom said, "garlic, of course, and tomatoes. Red pepper flakes. Butter, wine, oil."
"One more," she coaxed.
He leaned in - smelled hillsides in the sun, hot ground stone walls. "Oregano," he said, opening his eyes. Charlie smiled and handed him a forkful of pasta. After the sweetness of the melon, the flavor was full of red bursts and spikes of hot pepper shooting across his tongue, underneath, like a steadying hand, a salty cushion of clam, the soft velvet of oregano, and pasta a warm as beach sand.
