It's really not too strong a statement to say I live for days like these. Northerners, this is why we go through winter after grueling winter: summer, when it comes, is a gift. I've never been a fan of fantasy novels, because I don't need a novel to help me imagine a parallel perfect world. All it takes is someplace quiet and dreamy on a warm evening.
Yesterday, we splashed around in the brook, got ice cream, integrated the little chickens with the big chicken (so far, no fatalities!), and improvised a pretty stellar dinner on the grill. Then, we sat in our camp chairs on the lawn (by the chicken run) and watched the fireflies and the moon rise... My goodness, this is it. This is what it's about. The customary pre-dinner stroll in the garden for ingredients, bare feet on the front porch and cracking up watching the chickens over a few beers at twilight. Living, loving, and eating. And chickens.