Sunday and the Art of Re-Regifting

A beautiful Lambertville morning and with a crispness that is the harbinger of Fall.  After so much good food and wine we had a leisurely start to the day, going into town to sip surprisingly good (real!) tea at Rojo, the local coffee shop, and take a stroll along the Delaware Raritan Canal.  Loaded up with sweet corn, new apples and Jersey tomatoes at a farm stand then headed back to tackle the unloading and stashing of all our supplies.

Because you can't buy food in the rest of America

I thought it wouldn't fit - apparently I couldn't imagine life on the road without my Le Creuset Dutch oven, food processor, pasta pot, most of my kitchen utensils and spices AND several cake pans.  Dan exercised admirable restraint as he handed each thing to me but I managed to find nooks for everything. 

Dan had brought along the ancient, unopened bottle of Benedictine that neither of us remembers ever buying or receiving and we presented it (okay, re-gifted it) to CT and Diane that night, after another one of Diane's magnificent meals. 




We'd been talking about intuitive healing (Diane's been practicing that for many years with her beloved Temple dogs) and we somehow got around to religion. 

The only time I ever had a psychic reading I was told I'd been a nun in a previous life.  Hmm.  It's true, I always get goosebumps when I walk into a church and weep copiously during hymns, but I've never been interested in organized religion.  I shared the story of sneaking into a Catholic church when I was about 6 or 7.  It was part of a monastery which could only be reached by crossing a footbridge over the Yarra River in Melbourne (Andrew, Stephen, do you remember this?) It seemed utterly dangerous and thrilling to be so high above the muddy waters. The grounds were beautiful, manicured and lush, unlike the scrubby bush outside.  A foreign, exotic world.  And when I snuck into the church I was immediately struck by the pungent, heady smell of incense.

"See?" said Diane, "They got you when you were young and impressionable and now you're theirs for life." 

So then we argued about who said "Give me a boy at four and he's mine for life."  Diane thought Machiavelli, I thought Chairman Mao,

 or maybe Baden-Powell.  I suppose I could look it up but I'd rather speculate on who could have (or maybe should have) said it.  Feel free to add your suggestions.

Again, CT insisted I try the Benedictine even though I said I'm not a big liqueur drinker, and I took a sip and immediately tasted the incense of that first illicit foray into church which I'd just finished telling them about.  Coincidence?  Probably, but I prefer again to speculate.  Diane promptly handed over the bottle and said "It's yours for life."

We spent our first night in the RV and went to sleep to the sounds of crickets.