This weekend, I began looking for a Farmer’s Market, but was rewarded with other finds:  pick-your-own fruit farms and orchards, farms with a CSA program, and suppliers of farm fresh eggs, pastured poultry, and local honey.  I’ve also discovered almost-local sources of both cow and goat cheese.   I realized that it’s possible to have a daily life together where the meals we plan are enhanced with locally harvested goods.

It’s a concept I hadn’t thought much about until the last couple of years.  Last year, the chef at my home-away-from-home (Hotel Monaco / Poste Braissiere) based his menus on what was available seasonally.  Once a week, a farmer’s market appeared on the street next to the hotel, and on that day, I would buy fresh fruit, cheese, and sometimes baked goods from the market, go to my room, order a glass of wine and some bread and have a non-restaurant meal.  Soon, I realized that the restaurant next door (Zola’s) had a chef who also planned his meals seasonally.  I was especially sad when his Basil Creamed Corn went out of season.

It opened my eyes to what folks like Mario Batali have been encouraging for years:  eat seasonally, eat locally.

Both of us have gotten into habits of eating quickly, eating poorly, or not eating at all.  Our relationship has given me the opportunity to explore the world around me and to begin my day dreams of daily life together.  Mealtimes – the preparation and the consumption of meals together  and with friends – is an important part of that daily life.    Being able to support sustainable agriculture while making the meals that will nourish not only our bodies, but our spirits makes it even better.

Every day that passes gets us closer to living in the same space together.   It’s one of those long term goals that is quickly becoming a short term goal.  I want that time to hurry up and then magically slow down during the time we are together.  But my trip into Tennessee this past week tells me that it will probably pass like molasses on on August day.

In less than two weeks, you will be traveling to Dallas.  I have a “to-do” list running through my head of what I want to get done before you are here: get the spare room in order for your stay, de-clutter my office, stock the pantry, schedule the yard guy…. And I have a list of places I want to show you and things I want us to do together, like visiting the Kimbell, eating Mediterranean food at the nearby Turkish Grill, and sharing our morning walk at my favorite park.

These days, I’m practicing the  imperfect art of patience.  Time continues to creep when we are apart.  I’m sure that others in long-distance relationships will understand exactly where I’m coming from when I say that I want time to hurry up so that we can share our daily lives.  Then I want that time to slow so that we can savor it.

On television, Stewie Griffin writes his memoirs, blaming a man dressed in white for all his ills; meanwhile Brian chases the Purina Dog Chow wagon into a sack of dog food.

A menagerie of plush animals and beasties stare mutely at me. I rest an eye on one of them and let my imagination wander. What if Frida Kahlo had been able to talk with a hedgehog? Would the communication have altered her understanding of the universe? Would hedgehogs have occupied her paintings, bristling in mock threat, shielding her from love’s pain?

The cable modem blinks a rapid connection. In Honduras, Marc Lacey and Ginger Thompson of The New York Times tell me there is a mystery in the return of deposed leader Manuel Zelaya. I read through their report and ponder parts of it aloud.

The Chinese food I ate earlier has left me hungry two hours later. Typical. I dream of Denny’s, of saying to hell with sensible diet and splitting an appetizer plate with a friend.

Books I am reading wink at me from the shelf, but I have no time for them this evening. Work will wait until morning. Even this entry, cobbled together in a moment of tenderness, robs me of intimacy.

She is here. We could actually split the aforementioned food if we wanted. We can touch or not touch as we choose. We can stare and smile at one another without a wall of technology between us.

Moments like this are holy, holy, holy. They make me want to chant the om mani padme hum until I achieve Nirvana.

I look across the small distance between us and stare at her. She sits wrapped in a pale robe over a matching nightgown. In a few minutes she’ll stumble off like a sleepy protesting toddler into the guest room where she’ll rest until morning. But now she stares back at me, wrinkles her nose and asks, “What, baby? What?”

Everything is suddenly holy. All the world is touched with kindness.

Earlier today we passed figurines in a Target store and she asked, “Do you want a Buddha?” Who could have guessed then that the Buddha would dwell in my heart this evening?

In the morning I won’t feel this way. The day’s cares will creep in and choke this bliss. But for now I revel in it.

The golden cat leaps from the desk onto her chair and she scratches his head.

He gets it. He does indeed.

“I’m sorting through books, and wondered if you would mind if I put all my Lincoln books in your office.”  He laughed and told me that of course I could put my Lincoln books there, as it would give me a reason to interrupt him when he was working.  He knows me well.

From the time that I discovered words made sentences which eventually told a story, I was hooked on books.  My personal library is an eclectic collection ranging from the Trixie Belden books I have lovingly recollected, to mystery novels by James Patterson, Catherine Coulter and Stephen White to classic novels by Steinbeck and Hesse to non-fiction books on the Civil War and WWII eras to books on spirituality and holistic medicine to business tomes.    I’m not counting the past issues of Simple Living, Smithsonian, and National Geographic nor the countless comic books, portraying the tales of Wonder Woman, Batman, and The X-Men.

I love the look and feel and smell of books.  From the time that I discovered that The Nancy Drew Books, arranged in order, looked smashing on my shelves, I have preferred to own the books that I love.  But don’t think my library is a collection of perfectly arranged books in pristine condition.  You’ll find dog-eared pages, boarding pass bookmarks and underlined passages throughout.

My personal library isn’t contained in one room, but scattered throughout several rooms of the house.  My collection of childhood books reside in the top of my closet.   Business books and much of my non-fiction collection resides in my office.  Mystery Novels  and the books on Spirituality live in my bedroom.  Cookbooks are mostly in the kitchen, though a few of those are taking up residence in the small office off of the living room.  I’m not counting the books on my kitchen table, which need to be returned to Melissa nor the books in the living room (I’m reading a couple) nor the “emergency chick lit” book that stays in my briefcase.

He is a lover of the written word as well.   I believe he has read more books than any other human I’ve ever met, and his tastes are more varied than mine.  I’ve only seen a small portion of his collection, as it could be rude to paw through his books during the precious time we’ve been able to spend face to face.  I know that when we work out things to be living in the same place,  his books will find a home with mine.  The room that is to be his office is sparsely furnished at present.  But there are a few bookshelves there, just waiting to be filled.  And we can always buy/build more.

In the organization of my library, I was filled with a bit of a longing to give that space a head start.  Books have always brought me warmth and I want that room share that warmth.  Knowing that someday soon, his books will happily mingle with mine and our home library will be a source of much joy and warmth for all who live — and visit — here.

In my world, libraries represent love.

(This entry serves as my contribution to the Sept/Oct Cafe Writing Project on Libraries  – Option 6)

Often, on nights spent in the mountains here in Eastern Tennessee, I’ve stared up at the sky and wondered what the experience must have been like for Daniel Boone and Davy Crockett, two of the first white men to explore the area at a time when Cherokee villages were the only dots of civilization in what was largely wilderness.

Boone was best known for his exploration and settlement of what would later become the state of Kentucky, but he wandered into Tennessee. A tree in Washington County bears witness: “D. Boon Cilled a. Bar on tree in the year 1760.” (Read: “Killed a Bear on [this] tree.”)

Crockett lived here, helped settle the state, served under Andrew Jackson in the Tennessee Militia, and was elected to the U.S. House of Representatives. He then went south into Texas, got involved in the Texas Revolution, and died there at the Alamo on March 6, 1836 following Santa Ana’s siege. He was 46.

He once described himself as “fresh from the backwoods, half-horse, half-alligator, a little touched with the snapping turtle; can wade the Mississippi, leap the Ohio, ride upon a streak of lightning, and slip without a scratch down a honey locust.” No wonder I think about the sky he stared up at: There are some days I feel like his awkward younger brother.

Sadly, the stars I see from my perch on Big Frog Mountain are likely not the same as those witnessed by Dan’l and Davy. Here in the 21st Century, my sky is muddied by what astronomers call “light pollution.” As depicted in the image above, man-made lights here on the earth so fill the sky with their artificial brilliance that they obscure the heavens’ fainter stars.

Sure, I see a wealth of lights, but nothing to compare with the sky my forebears admired. It seems humans are caught up in a race to keep the world laboring along like an ant colony 24/7, and a glorious night sky is a small sacrifice in the pursuit of eternal production of goods and endless entertainment.

Don’t get me wrong: I avail myself of those goods and am in constant need of stimulation. I don’t know an American human born after 1950 who isn’t in some way caught up in the ravenous hunger of the technological era. But there are times I feel like a hamster on a wheel, running, running, running, but never getting anywhere.

I am deeply grateful for the connection technology provides my love and me. Without it our relationship would have moved at a snail’s pace. But I never lose the knowledge that this is artificial and a dim reflection of what will come when we are finally, permanently together, occupying the same space, breathing the same air, able to touch, sniff, cuddle, annoy, and admire one another close-up, when we’ll no longer have to sacrifice the greater lights of physical familiarity for the lesser, man-made lights of intimacy through technology.

Satellite Photo Courtesy of NASA Goddard Flight Safety Center, compiled from Oct 1994 to March 1994.

The distance between us has led me to discover a new love for comfort foods.  Megan, one of the ATG Columnists recently wrote about food that heals, and I well understand in both times of loss and times of joy how food is a comfort.  The actual act of cooking is also comforting:  to be able to take raw ingredients and mix and blend and stir until it becomes something different.  I grew up on Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, but this recipe has become my favorite.

Begin to boil your pasta. My pantry is stocked with Barilla Plus Pasta. The nutritional content is higher than regular pasta.  Begin by making a basic white sauce (Bechamel Sauce)

• 2 Tablespoons of Butter
• 2 Tablespoons of Flour (I used Whole Wheat Pastry Flour )
• 1 1/3 Cup of Milk
• 1 1/2 cup of Shredded Cheese (I used Reduced Fat 4 Cheese Mexican Blend Cheese from Sargento)

Melt Butter in a sauce pan. Add Flour and blend to make a roux. Gradually add milk. I use a whisk at this point and add milk 1/3 cup at a time, blending and allowing the sauce to thicken.  After sauce is blended, begin adding cheese, stirring continuously as the cheese melts. Pour sauce over hot pasta, add some cracked black pepper, stir and EAT.

This seems a bit more work than a Blue Box of Kraft, but it’s almost as quick and three times as good.   I also change up the cheese to give different tastes for different main dishes.

As a side note, I’ve discovered that falling in love brings along a desire to nest.  Cooking is one of those things.

As our relationship grows more profound, I have increasing difficulty writing about it. It’s easy to be glib when there is nothing more than the ante on the table, much harder when the stakes are considerably higher. There are times now when I look at you and my tongue literally sticks to the roof of my mouth. All words are inadequate to express what I feel.

So I rely on others — especially on music — to say what I cannot.

I’ve shared Amy MacDonald’s “Run” before; but it seems especially appropriate now. I’m going to run this race until I drop. I won’t stop even a moment before.

To be honest, there isn’t much to the seasonal changes here.    One day, it’s 99 degrees and green with brown patches (due to the heat) and the next day it’s 60 degrees and brown with green patches.   We have two big seasons:  winter and summer.  The seasons that typically bring about a changing of mother nature’s clothing in the Smoky Mountain regions and along the New England Coast aren’t  nearly as long, nor are they as brilliant.   But autumn is here. It isn’t that the leaves are beginning to fade from green to gold, it’s just the feel in the air.  The temperatures are slightly lower and we’re having days of slow, steady rain.

I can always tell that autumn is here, no matter what the temperature gauge says, by the behavior of the dog.  When she begins sleeping on the rug, instead of the tile, I know that nature has signaled to its creatures that the season is changing.

I know that he spent his childhood traveling from country to country, but for a bulk of his adult life, he has lived in Eastern Tennessee, where there are four distinct seasons.

There are no brilliant colors in the leaves here in Texas.  There is rarely much of an autumn chill.  But I have faith, despite the distinct seasons, he’ll like it here.

Because we’ll be together.

It’s a day of rest as well as a spiritual day.   I spend some time in prayer and meditation.  I try to spend some time doing creative things.  I rarely do client work.  Even when I am traveling, I try to block out at least the morning to worship, savor breakfast and leisurely read the paper.  It’s sacred time:  a time to recharge my body and my spirit.

When it comes to relationships, I knew that one of the keys for a successful relationship, at least for me, was to have a companion that viewed Sundays in a similar fashion.   As he well noted, I am a morning person (and he is not).  But one of the beautiful things about our relationship is the ability to meld my morning glory side with his evening primrose side.  Especially on Sundays.  When I fix my coffee and nosh while he relaxes with tea and watches me through half-closed eyes.  When I take an afternoon siesta while he catches up on the day’s news.

I love this song by Maroon 5, by the way.  It embodies the feeling of this relationship.    The knowledge that no matter how rough life gets, we have each other.     That the distance is rough sometimes, but the road always leads back to being together.  The comfort combined with passion.

It’s Sunday morning and the rain is falling here in Texas.   In two short weeks, our Sunday will be spent in the same house.  We won’t need to connect via Skype and telephone.  We will share quiet moments as we sit across the breakfast table from each other and share the paper.  We will continue to strengthen our bond as a family when we hang out with my daughter.    We will recharge our bodies, minds and spirits together as we share our Sunday morning.

Look for me at 1 a.m. and I’m abuzz. I flourish in the wee hours. I find I’m more imaginative, more productive and more cheerful. Unfortunately most of the people I know — including the woman who shares this space — are exactly opposite. If I had a dime for every time my father, a sibling or my companion urged me to get up out of bed, I’d buy out Donald Trump and we’d never have to see his bad toupee on television again.

Breakfast in the early morning does not appeal to me. Biscuits are gummy and cleave to the roof of my mouth. Eggs run over the plate and refuse to be sopped up. Cereal needs milk. Milk. Who on earth decided milk and mornings are at all compatible? I’d like to throttle them. At 9 a.m. sausage gives me heartburn, pancakes boost my energy to manic levels one minute and drop me into a coma the next, and French toast is the worst of everything combined into one.

Give me any of those foods in the evening and I’m delighted; but in the morning what I want is leftover pizza, cold spaghetti, or chicken.

Of course, there’s no holding her back at 9. By then she’s fed the animals, made coffee, drank at least two cups, gotten dressed, caught up on email, cured cancer and split the atom. (Okay, maybe she hasn’t cured cancer yet, but give her a little time.)

She also wants me to eat. Now. Within fifteen minutes of arising. When my poor stomach is still in the bed snoring and producing methane for farting. I look at a glass of milk and my stomach knots up and says, “You’ve got to be kidding me. This is a joke, right?” There is no dissuading her. She is suddenly the caricature of a Jewish mother, “Eat!”

Thank God for Chick-fil-A. She goes for the chicken biscuit; I can tolerate the breakfast burrito. She has coffee and giggles at blogs she reads; I drink orange juice and snarl over the newspapers. We are the yin and yang of morning and it suits us.

They say opposites attract: Don’t believe it. For two people to get along they have to share basic core values and be nearly dogmatic about them. But outside a fundamental sameness, variety is the spice of life — and our differing approach to mornings is the cayenne pepper start of my day.