These are a few of my favorite things

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I wake up with a different song in my head every day. Can’t really help it. Julie Andrews singing “These are a few of my favorite things” was NOT my Song of The Day today, but it DID come up sometime during the day and got stuck in my tiny brain. So I started thinking about some of my favorite things. Like…

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Local food. Here, olives, cheese, bread, a spreadable sausage, prosciutto and another kind of hearty Italian ham, our Primi Piatti at the agriturismo near San Ginesi where we ate last night.

Lamb…

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Here, grilled by the little nonna who ran the agriturismo. It was my dessert (after pasta and insalata).

New friends, old family.

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A fire in the hearth. There was discussion tonight about whether we actually needed one, since the boiler is now working and we have heat (thank you, Baby Jesus), but who said anything about “need”? I’ve always enjoyed a fire. Some of my best, most delicious memories are of me sitting in my father’s lap by the fireplace on a cold winter night. He loved it as much as I. He knew, as I do now, that staring into a fire is therapeutic, revealing, reflective, magic. I can see the past, and hear the future in the crackle and hiss. Memories dance as smoke on the rise. The world as it might be plays and flickers briefly before my warming face. I played and sang a few songs on my guitar to the empty room and wondered is it the song that makes you cry, or the playing of it, or the circumstances and memories of another playing of the song, at another time, in another space… Maybe I shouldn’t play that song anymore. But I love it so. It’s one of my favorite things.

 

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One thought on “These are a few of my favorite things

  1. Margaret Fitzgerald

    Ah, sitting on Daddy’s lap in front of fire as Mother and Daddy shared a “private” steak dinner in the living room. Trying to escape seven children who were supposed to be tucked in bed by that hour. I felt special and as if I was the only one experiencing it. Apparently our parents wisely let each of us experience that at some point and feel like we were an only child if even for a night. Sorry, Bro, to intrude on your lovely blog. I am enjoying it immensely. And I’m no writer. You’re the writer in the family.

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