Last weekend, a gaggle of the kids on our block had convened on the front porch of our neighbors from the South. One of them is from the same town my dad grew up in: Natchez, Mississippi. We started talking about pimento cheese. She makes her own. I couldn't get pimento cheese out of my brain, so a few days later, I sent her a message on facebook telling her about my craving. Fourteen minutes later, she shows up on my front porch with this:
I laughed and told her that I didn't mean for her to bring me any but that I just wanted her recipe. She looked baffled and asked what I was talking about. I said, "You didn't bring this over because you'd seen my posting on facebook?" She hadn't. At the exact moment I was writing her about my craving for pimento cheese, she was in her kitchen making a batch of it. Because she's a mind-reader and a generous one at that, she immediately brought me some. I love my neighbors.
Merlefest is this weekend. We are not there. My family is. I'm at peace with this, knowing that our "sacrifice" of this yearly trip is for a good reason (needing to save lots of bucks for a huge trip or two later this year). But when my nieces post updates on facebook about the great time they're having, yeah, I feel a little sad that I'm not with them. Merlefest is probably the highlight of my dad's year, and I've loved the tradition we've made of being there with him. Sigh. Merefest postings: One, Two, and Three.
So this morning we biked to a farmer's market in town and discovered a fun band that would have fit right in at Merlefest. We got to sit and listen for a while. Merlefest is only once a year, but we get to bike to listen to good music every Saturday if we want to. That counts for something right?
Aren't they fun? Merlefest next year. I'll bring the pimento cheese sandwiches.