Hello, darling. If you are reading this, you have already been invited to my table in spirit. I taught middle school social studies for eleven years, left for accounting, spent a decade in real estate, and now study investment analysis with textbooks spread beside campground reservation printouts. This is not financial advice. This is a blog.
Thirty years ago I traveled Europe with a backpack and a rail pass—Lisbon pasteis, Paris rain, Greek ferries. I still taste those trips when I chop herbs. But the last five years belong to this country: a small RV, Biscuit with his head out the window, national parks I skipped in my twenties because I thought I had to fly somewhere to be amazed.
These days I walk trails, shop farmers markets in gateway towns nobody famous writes about, ferment vegetables on the counter, and host dinner parties when we are home because feeding people is how I say I love you. The road taught me the same lesson Europe did: wonder is local if you slow down.
Biscuit has no career history. He is fully employed as my copilot of morale. Topics here may include seating charts, compound interest, overlooked state parks, and whether your guest bathroom hand towel is actually inviting. The coffee is fresh. Pull up a chair.