Warm. Almost windless. We celebrated father’s day on the sixth floor patio. He babysat the BBQ and dished out delish burgers and corn on the cob. I cobbled together calamari and bread crumbs and garlic and leek.
Most weekends. We visit my parents. My mother runs around the kitchen serving six courses. This time, she is (sort of) sitting still. Reminded me of a rainy afternoon in Bogota. The rain gave us a reason to convince my mother to let us have (yet another) coffee.