We sat in the yard and drank rhubarb schnapps from 2018. The ranunculus was in its prime, waxy, silky yellow cups that have a sturdiness to them. The white and yellow daffodils, much more papery, were fading slightly– those bold first flowers in a sunny side yard.
The pork came from a local farmer. It cooked while we sat and talked. And then, ribs. With translucent, almost-buttery fat at the edges– the kind of thing my granny would have loved and remarked loudly upon. (“We used to eat everything– a little sheep brain, paté on a cracker…”)
I brought a fork and a knife out with me, cut the fresh asparagus for the first bite, and then abandoned cutlery:
Salt and garlic and the sweet and subtly vinegary tang of barbecue sauce. There’s something about being outside in the spring when the birch leaves are still so green and new that they’re yellow, and a crow is sitting high up in a treetop where the sunlight can still reach it and is grooming its feathers, and you have a tiny glass of three-year-olds schnapps that shows the goodness of things that last, and your fingers are slick with the good grease of an animal that lived on land only a few miles away, and the asparagus snaps with each bite and you can feel the crystals of salt on your tongue–
And you sit and talk until the cool of the evening gets to you, and then the impromptu dinner party is done. And it all happened because everything aligned, and because you asked, and they asked: connection, risk, love, discovery.
And the ranunculus keeps blooming even at night, now under the nearly-full moon. And soon, some of them will bear the discomfort of being uprooted and will grow in your very own garden– and before too long you’ll be the one inviting people over for an evening of your very own version of This.