At last night's dinner party we had conversations with our cabin friends about moving. It was bittersweet. Something that seemed a long-term plan is becoming more eminent. This is not going to be easy. 

"We will miss you," friends said. "We understand."

For the rest of the evening conversations continued about whether to stay in the country or move. They lit like little wild fires around the wood stove  Family. Water source. Steep roads. Mowing. Walking. And then there's the who goes first consideration and the other is left alone. It's not that this is a new conversation. When it starts showing up on your horizon, it feels different.

Larry made the best chuck roast. I made Mushrooms Berkeley from the first edition of "Vegetarian Epicure." The pages, ragged, and falling out, tied with hand dyed organza wrapped around. There are many versions of this recipe, but this is the best.

Kathy and James brought kale salad. Harvested from their low tunnel garden on their mountaintop. Tim and Ellen brought corn casserole and homemade bread, baked in the oven. Dewey and Barbara brought dessert. The table was set with candles. Later, the guys pulled out their guitars, the cabin shook, and we girls talked over. 

I never clean up immediately after parties. I prefer to sit and savour. I like the quiet afterwards. The remaining candlelight. And remembering. Expressing all the way to the grave goes by fast.