Joseph and I took a drive in the countryside this afternoon.
We noted a myriad of red barns.
We stopped at a local prestigious college, which will remain unnamed to eat some free and delicious raspberries and tomatoes from the local garden, and to steal some firewood for our dinner.
We're SO free that we can eat s'mores for dinner.
The advantage to having a fireplace can be counted on one flaming stick.
"Is this what people who have fireplaces do every night for dessert?" (paraphrasing Joseph)
He's not afraid to throw caution to the wind; he's not afraid of an open flame; he's not even afraid of an eternal flame.
It's finally my turn to rock the s'mores.
I try not to remember that my cottage is made of wood and has been known to go up in smoke.
Joseph beautifully documents The Making of The Sandwich.
Who is the inventor of the s'mores? (Or is a single sandwich called a s'more?) I'd like to shake her hand and thank her for blessing us all with her immaculate creation.
It's the simple pleasures for me!
