From Boone’s helmets to Amsterdam’s freedom, the bike has always been my companion. And I can’t wait to live life again by the bike path — this time with the wind in my hair, and maybe a basket of fresh market tulips rattling up front.

So raise your fork, oh breakfast knight, For waffles win the morning fight. Their secret lies in pockets deep Where treasures of the table sleep.

I leaned over the pot to inhale deeply—really deeply—and my nose brushed the rising steam. Instantly, the sharp oils hit me like a lime-flavored wasabi bomb. I sneezed so violently that I knocked the cream pot sideways. Half of it sloshed down the counter, directly into the open drawer where my oven mitts live.

The recipe was pure Grandma: equal parts simplicity and danger. Chili powder, smoked paprika, a mountain of beans, and a commandment written in the margins: “Use fresh peppers only.”

Along the painted walls so bright, Where colors dance in morning light, A secret hops where no one sees A sticker frog in subtle tease.

Buster smiled. Sometimes guarding the orchard meant letting joy misstep— and gently helping it try again.

Buster had never been to a Return Counter before. Especially not one in the back garden of a Trader Joe’s. But there it was—carved into a rosemary bush and staffed by a porcupine in a smock that said “Hilde.”

The recipe seemed innocuous enough: chicken, blackberries, and a whole lot of peppers. "Perfect," I thought, "a little kick, a little sweet." Grandma knew what's up, and she clearly didn't want Betty to know.

It's all about doing the daily dew

Summer Love on the wings of Lady Bugs

Whispered soft on sunlit breeze, Butterfly kisses drift with ease, Summer's gentle, fleeting art, Touching hearts and leaving sparks In...