But she was starting to get the hang of it, life in the country, her body always in motion. That morning she’d made pancakes served with the wild blueberries she’d picked that summer by hand-berries so small they resembled capers, the mosquitoes so bad she thought she’d go mad. New and improved dirt, because, she had discovered, everything about living in the country was about following a recipe.Īlready she had made Christmas tree ornaments, vegetarian casseroles, and dyes made from onion skins and beets to color her own Easter eggs. You could follow a recipe to make better dirt. Wearing their son in a backpack carrier, with her long Nordic hair caught up loose and haphazard at her neck, she carried the empty compost container and walked up the hill away from the garden, crossing the field that was their front lawn and swinging her arms, because life in the country didn’t mean you had to be content with the dirt you got.
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