Our stove ran out of propane this morning, half way through baking. A cast iron pan overflowing with small potatoes and olive oil. I had a shower instead.

Now they sit on a plate in front of me, a hopeful recipe to my right- there are bushels upon bushels to preserve in the next few days. And then it all stops, because I have a secret: we're hopping onto a plane Friday afternoon, bound West, sweet West. For a period which promises to be painfully brief, but bring us much joy. And rest. I'm so hopeful for rest.

But first, there are a thousand things to do. A big decision to make. Enormous amounts of produce to put up. This perfectly soft boiled egg to eat.