Things get preeeetttty crazy around here when it's just us two gals holding down my parents' fort.
We have her heart's desire for dinner, which, as heredity and early training would have it, is mine too: bread, cheese, and--because the quart we bought in the morning was rumored to be our last--local strawberries.
My house salad went with these open-faced tartines.
On one slice of lightly toasted, multigrain sourdough bread, I spread goat cheese, then topped it with sliced strawberries, ribbons of basil, olive oil, salt, and cracked black pepper.
The other, fig jam with sharp white cheddar, is a beloved standby, yet only got two thumbs up in the shadow of the seasonal special--which scored a fair-weathered four.
We clinked glasses--mine filled with Provençal rosé, hers with water.
She ate her salad first and then polished off all of these tartine slices, using her forefinger to pick up stray crumbs.
Then we did each others' hair and took the dog for a walk still wearing our braids and tiaras.
On the way back, I carried the poo bag and she collected snails.
Before bed, we flipped between The Holiday (yes, in May) and a recording of The Voice (Usher is soooooo cute) while letting squares of dark chocolate dissolve on our tongues.
The girl can hang.