Kathy texted before we set out for Lancaster—we intended to spend the night.

Her: I need to discuss whether you are coming early enough that we can have supper together at the patch. (A pumpkin field lies up the road from her and Dale’s house, with a fine picnic spot.)

Me: Why, we can make that happen. Sounds mighty ambitious. (They would have to haul the food.)

Her: You don’t know the menu yet.

Me: Do you?

Her: Hot dogs and chips. Just kidding.

Me: I love chips. I love hot dogs.

Her: But, no. I don’t know the menu yet. You’re such a dear friend. You’d likely say you love cow pies if I gave that as the entree.

Me: Would not.

Her: Actually, I’m just now getting off the couch. Yesterday I went and got Covid and flu vaccines. Couldn’t do a thing until just now.

Me: Smart girl. Also, thank you. Because if you die before me I’ll miss you terribly.

Her: Ditto! Have you gotten?! I’m comforted by the fact that you’re in pretty good health and eat good food.

Me: My word. Do you know what I ate so far today? Cheerios. Cake, twice. Ice cream with it, the second time. Ugly bought frozen pizza. A little tad of homemade soup sits thawing for supper. Oh, also toast.

Her: But the toast was good homemade bread. Homemade soup very healthy! Even the cake and ice cream all homemade. And WHOSE birthday?

Me: Free stale Magpie bread. Store ice cream. Nobody’s birthday—I eat cake all the time.

Two days later, eight o’clock in the morning, back home again, I texted Kathy: I just had a slab of cake.

To be cont’d.


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