Our son, Dwight, just got home from two years in France where he did volunteer humanitarian service. He stopped over in Vermont, which is the place he calls home since that's where we lived for so long. I haven't seen him yet, since I live in Utah now. I'm giddy at the thought he'll be here on Monday.
I just got back from a run to the store where I intended to get pine nuts to make pesto with all the basil that's exploding in our garden and came home with arm loads of French cheese, San Pellegrino, and various sparkling drinks to celebrate his homecoming à la française--and I actually remembered to get pine nuts.
A few French movies will be in order next week after playing hard during the day: Les Choristes, La Gloire de Mon Père, Le Château de Ma Mère. We'll have to throw in some Brian Regan, since as we all know he is SO FRENCH, cough, cough. We'll get some camping in, picnics, pot luck dinners with the massive extended family that surrounds us, and I don't know what else. I am verrah, verrah excited, and PROUD of Dwight.
Well, our 15 year-old is downstairs playing Nintendo. I'm about to rescue him from eternal brain fog and take him over to his cousins for the afternoon before he goes bike riding with all the neighbor kids. Life is good.
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