I took the bus to St. Louis last week, only to meet and hitch a ride from Ashlee on her drive back to Missouri from Louisville. We spent the night in a high-rise hotel, ordered room service (!!) early the next morning, and made it out of the parking garage just as the streets were being closed for the Thanksgiving Day Parade.
I'm having homemade granola and chai this morning, on the floor, where I've been spending more time lately. I'm settled down with the paper for a couple hours and then we're going to walk a few neighborhoods over for the last performance of a play. Maybe I'll roast a chicken tonight, if I can find a good source. Maybe I'll just eat leftover lentils. Maybe I'll continue with my Willa Cather kick. Or, maybe I'll listen to Radiolab instead.
The Chicago wind is the only thing moving quickly today.
We spent a night camping in the redwoods, cooking meals on the fire and propane stove, drinking pumpkin cider and California beer. I pulled some beets from Molly and Steve's garden before we left, which we roasted with sweet potatoes, brussels sprouts, and a big hunk of butter. We wrapped it all up in foil and threw it right on the coals, a little nervous about the technique, but so pleased with the outcome.
It quickly became dark and I had to put on extra layer, digging into my clothing reserve, which was running low. We ate s'mores next to the fire, surrounded by all of that black, all of that silence and one owl. I got too cold, as I do, and retired to the tent to read a little by the lantern. Sam watched the fire die down, and we both fell asleep to falling redwood needles on the tarp—just like those on the table above. It sounded just like rain.
The next morning, Sam fried up eggs and bacon in the cast iron—which he's so good at—while I walked around the park drinking my coffee. We ate breakfast sandwiches, packed up, hiked a six mile trail, and then headed toward the coast.