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| Gluten-free shepherd's pie, Irish style cottage comfort. |
I have been craving comfort food and shepherd's pie- even though it's been a warm and breezy week here by the Chama River north of Santa Fe.
The promise of Spring is tugging at our sluggish winter bodies, cracking and stiff and a tad thicker than one would care to admit. We are itchy to walk- just as the junipers are shedding pollen in curtains of dirty yellow. We walked and sneezed and rubbed gritty eyes.
The promise of Spring is tugging at our sluggish winter bodies, cracking and stiff and a tad thicker than one would care to admit. We are itchy to walk- just as the junipers are shedding pollen in curtains of dirty yellow. We walked and sneezed and rubbed gritty eyes.For this we waited all winter? I complained.
It strikes us as ironic if not downright diabolical. Mother Nature is taunting us. The coyotes are laughing on the rim of the mesa. I listen and note they are closer than usual, emboldened by our wintery hibernation. The land belongs to them now. We're simply tourists.
This doesn't bother me. I'm just here in passing, on my way home. Taking the long way- dreaming of the west coast and waves of glassy blue-green curling in to shore. I'm an ocean girl, a beachcomber. A flip-flop
wearer. Not a cowgirl
. I've never ridden a horse in my life. Or handled a rifle (two skills highly valued in this part of the world). The desert does not feed me. She takes from me. Sucking every last drop. If I stay here much longer I fear you will find me as brittle and sun-bleached as one of Georgia O'Keeffe's
bone paintings.
wearer. Not a cowgirl. I've never ridden a horse in my life. Or handled a rifle (two skills highly valued in this part of the world). The desert does not feed me. She takes from me. Sucking every last drop. If I stay here much longer I fear you will find me as brittle and sun-bleached as one of Georgia O'Keeffe's bone paintings.I'm not quite ready to give up on the juicy part of my life.
