My children want to know about my favorites. What’s your favorite color? Your favorite food? Favorite place? What was your favorite part of the summer? The movie? The book?
Do you like blue best? Green? Chocolate? Pizza? Jazz?
My answers never satisfy. I don’t have a favorite. I am not being coy.
At our wedding, we danced a clumsy foxtrot to Van Morrison’s Moondance, not because we loved it best, but because Buster Poindexter’s growling take on Castle in Spain would not have been appropriate; nor Love Cats or anything by Tom Waits.
Today I am in northern Michigan, blessedly alone for a few more hours. Josh and I will fish off the dock tomorrow; our hands covered with fish scales and worm goo. I will eat oatmeal with blueberries and walnuts. I will go out in a kayak and follow the zipper trail of bubbles where the loons dive under and emerge halfway across the lake.
Last week David and I shared a perfect appetizer of goat cheese with honey and pistachios, a prelude to a less-than-memorable dinner. Lately, I have been dreaming of lamb chops seared with anchovies and garlic, though sometimes all I want is peanut butter on a spoon.
Josh and Sammy made pink lemonade before they left for camp: two boys perched on chairs at the kitchen counter, squeezing lemons and pressing strawberries through a sieve. The drink was intoxicating, especially the second day when the lemonade had become thoroughly infused with berries.
This house, this deck overlooking Cedar Lake. Today this is my favorite place – alone – because I know my family will be here soon.