The sky turned a dusky yellow as the rain picked up. In a quiet house, the sound of rain can be so comforting, a steady beat that makes you realize that regardless of Facebook, internet, cell phones you are still–we are still connected to nature, even if you are in the heart of the suburbs.
Last night, my family and I ate at a Farm to Table restaurant in Kingston, dining on lavender honey and ricotta, arugula and eggplant caviar, exotic fare indeed. My niece discovered beets could be yellow, and ventured to try agnolotti, small pockets of pasta stuffed with silken ricotta. A bowl of zucchini and jalapeno soup with yogurt was an Indian family’s dream and eagerly passed around for sampling. We recalled the episode in “Portlandia” about the farm-raised chicken. There were many more dishes but I remember now dessert, of which we seven shared four creative delights. But there was more sweetness in the parking lot, laughing and filled with the good humor following a good dinner, as we hugged and talked and hugged some more. My family, ranging from seventy-seven years to nine, having survived all that families survive, was having a good time.