The pull to home

A week on the cape.
Afternoons of ice cream cones, egrets, sandy shoes and neat, white houses.

Here, the trees stand tall and solemn and somehow independent. Yards are filled with knick knacks and hand painted signs. Roofs leak. Paint cracks. And things works out just fine.

The Pow Wow Bone Case

Whilst Sir Domo was insulating the ceiling the other day, attempting to winterize the red house for his beaver, he came upon a big surprise. A large, heavy typewriter, sitting plump there in the roof; black, and old and ancient. He couldn't quite reach it from the tip of his ladder, so he perched and huffed a while, twisting and turning and trying to get closer. Hark! There was something else there, a white folder with black writing. "The Pow Wow Bone Case!" He yelled down to Beaver. "Does that mean something in English?"

"No!" Answered Beaver. "We've something to solve!"

Why did the former owner cram a typewriter into his roof? And what is the mystery behind the Pow Wow Bone Case? Like a hot loaf of stuffed bread, the red house is just oozing with mysteries. But what will come up next?

Ode to the sandwich

The deliciousness of childhood, lathered on with a spoon. The sweet, sparkled tang of simplicity. It is happiness itself, accompanied with a cool drink of something chocolate. Everything else seems snobbish in comparison. Alongside the fennel, the codfish, the frown-inducing rhubarb risotto, it lies on certain menus as a planted flag of Life as it Should Be. It is peanut butter. It is jelly.
The greatest love story America has told.