These days I love for my fingers to have the peppery smell of my tomato plants or the sweet musky scent of vanilla. I'm meandering my way through a homemade dress that barely fits my boobs (someday I'll learn the art of altering a pattern to my body), and I'm one summer closer to mastering the art of ice cream making. I'm learning a new routine and enjoying the expanse of sunshine hours while simultaneously bad-mouthing the stint of 90-degree days I thought I'd left behind in Georgia.
This past weekend we traded cell phone service for a campsite in the Adirondacks. I bought Jiffy Pop and bacon at a general store that still uses a binder to keep track of locals' tabs. I stumbled through mossy woods and scrambled down slippery rocks—thinking of ticks the whole time—to swim in the Sacandaga River. Mike whittled (I use the term loosely) a tiny canoe and sailed a stick figure man complete with leaf hat down a tiny waterfall. We ate fire-blackened veggies and meat and 'mallows as the sun set behind the trees. We brought home leftover beer and bug bites, already thinking of next year's big group camping trip.