Dear Wigleaf,
 
I'm roasting a chicken tonight and if I had any idea where to find you, I'd ask you to join me. I've got it coated in salt and pepper, thyme, butter I melted slowly in a small saucepan on the stove. I slipped it between the meat and the skin because that, you said, is what makes it crispy. I even used those herbs we picked from the south of France—they're old, but I've still got them. And have you ever tried leeks? I've only ever had them mashed in soups with sherry and cream, but I sliced them thin and arranged them in a pan with some oil. There's potatoes and carrots, too, slivers of garlic. I made a whole playlist called Sunday Supper and it's got that song we always loved, the one about the day-old lemonade. Sometimes I think about drinking lemonade with you again on that deck beside the beach. Remember how you always reached for the branches in that thicket and pulled them down low so they wouldn't scrape me in the face? You were always thinking of my face. In these dreams I have you wear white linen and there's the sound of ice cubes against glass. You sip from a tumbler shaped like a sea animal, smooth cheese over toast. The lemonade's fancy because you've sliced some lemons up thin, added them to our cups, saying, "They take it up a notch," and I have to agree with you, all these years later, because they do. They really do. Lemon slices look pretty, floating in lemonade.
 
Life is just a funny dream, Wigleaf, and I wanted to share that dream with you.
 
Where are you? RSVP or don't, just come sit, again, at my table.
 
With love,

Amy






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Read LB's "Berenstein Bears."

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