Earlier in the week I needed to get out and do some food re-supplying. Milk is mostly what we purchase weekly, but I also needed to pick up a case of butter. While out of the house, I'd planned to check out the early season veg options at the co-op, and maybe bring home a few spring plants from the feed store. We’ve finally turned the corner weather-wise, and more than needing a few sundries, I just wanted to get out for a bit and look at something other than the attic or the inside of a dumpster. It feels like the only people I’ve seen lately, aside from those closest to me, are the folks at the Goodwill donation center. Life has been head down-sleeves rolled up-elbows deep in the work of helping mom sell properties in two states so she can then move to a third state.
I stood in line with my case of butter. Back up. Connecticut does a decent job of feeding herself for those with the interest and means; there is very little in the way of calories that cannot be sourced here. Butter is not one of those things, and we do eat a lot of butter. It’s not realistic for us to purchase the amount of raw milk we’d need to fill our butter needs; come to think of it, I’d bet butter is our largest food import. So there I am with my lone purchase which I’m reminded by the looks from those around me, is not a normal thing to buy. I could tell the man in front of me was curious. Finally, he asked, “Is that cheese?” I told him it wasn’t cheese, it was butter. He wanted to know more, so I offered a quick rundown on the quality of butter from grass fed cows, how deeply yellow it is (and why), and of course I mentioned the flavor. He was genuinely intrigued, telling me he’d try it because he was a “butter connoisseur.” I felt pleased to make his acquaintance. I hope he does give it a try, because every person, especially a self-proclaimed butter connoisseur, should know the taste of butter raised on grassy sunshine.
Onward to the feed store. I picked up some young rosemary plants and went inside to pay. Noticing the aisle of colorful pots that I do not need, I stood for a minute, admiring one particular vessel, wondering if I could justify the purchase. All the while, juggling several small rosemary’s from one arm to the next. Graceful I am not. I tried to pick up the pot, to feel it in my hands, turn it over and admire the pretty color from all sides. Not an easy thing with two armfuls of plants. I must have looked quite the sight because a man who worked at the store came over and offered a small box. What a nice thing! The box collected my plants and allowed me to place them on the shelf without getting dirt everywhere. Now my hands were free and I was able to pick up the pot, and of course it felt as beautiful as it looked. With little effort I convinced myself that it should come home. It was the least I could do after receiving such thoughtful (ahem… smart!) customer service.
I returned home to find mom hanging laundry on the line. During her visit, she practically rushed to hang or take in the laundry before someone else could get to it. I know it wasn’t easy for her to be here in the house that she and dad built, but it was nice to see her find comfort in the familiarity of a favorite chore, one she’d done repeatedly at this house for forty-plus years. We talked a lot about dad while she was here, often around the dinner table. So many good stories. She remarked how nice it was to have dinner at the table each night, how even in their later years, she and dad always did the same. One day while driving in the car she told me how lucky I am to have Adam, that I’d “found a good one.” Then she quickly added, “Well, I found the first good one, you found the next good one.” It was really sweet. I'm glad mom knows the peace that comes from such fond, loving memories.