Monday

It’s going to be in the 70s today, so I decide to wear a dress. However, even though it’s 70 degrees outside, inside it feels like it’s in the 50s, even with the heat on.

So here I am, sitting at my desk in my wool coat, wrapped in a John Hanly blanket, with a hot water bottle on my lap and a cup of tea beside me.

If this doesn’t work, I might have to go outside to warm up.

Later, Ger and I talk about what’s next for us. With James graduating in less than five years, the door to more adventure is beginning to open. I can feel something shifting, and my mind is beginning to dream about what life might look like a few years from now.

With Ger being from Ireland, the idea of moving abroad one day, or having a second home abroad, has always lingered in the back of our minds. Over the years, we’ve talked about England, Scotland, and various other countries.

Today, France is our destination. We decide to explore a few regions that might suit us: Bordeaux, Brittany, Aix-en-Provence, and Montpellier. (I would love to include Paris, but I don’t think we could swing the cost.)

I put together a presentation with everything I can think of to help us compare the different places, from climate to cultural vibe. Based on the research, we think Bordeaux might tick the most boxes.

We’re looking for a place that feels completely different from the life we have now. Our life in Massachusetts is quiet, cozy, and safe, and offers us so much. But we’re also craving a place where we can step outside our door and find ourselves in the heart of a city, surrounded by wonderful food and wine, shops, and cultural attractions.

I especially want to be surrounded by beautiful architecture (which is why Paris is so appealing) and places steeped in history. Sorry, CVS, but you’re not cutting it.

Ideally, we’d have a little pied-à-terre in the city, somewhere we could return to throughout the year, alongside our cozy New England home to come back to.

After our conversation, I decide to open a bottle of Saint-Émilion wine to commemorate taking one more step toward our next adventure.

Who knows where it might lead?

Tuesday

One of the benefits of working from home is being able to pop out to the garden and snip some chives for lunch.

Today I’m having smashed yellow potatoes with butter, salt, and fresh chives, alongside a side of Heinz beans.

Cheap and cheerful, as they say.

Wednesday

The number of side businesses, websites, and creative projects I’ve had over the years would probably be enough to last someone a lifetime. But not me. Some might say I’m unable to commit. I just call myself curious.

Lately, I’ve had a little niggle inside me telling me I’m ready for something new. What’s been swirling around in my mind is the idea of creating spaces where women can welcome their creative and curious selves.

By the afternoon, my notebook is filling up with ideas, and my inbox is full of thoughts I’ve had on my walk.

I’m not sure where any of this will go, but I’m excited to take the first step and find out.

Thursday

The sky is a dull November gray, and the trees are barely holding on to their leaves. It’s unseasonably humid for this time of year. How are you supposed to hibernate when you can’t even wear a sweatshirt comfortably?

I transition my breakfast from Greek yogurt to oatmeal. I fill my bowl with oats, applesauce, cinnamon, various nuts and seeds, sultanas, and freshly diced apples.

It’s autumn in a bowl.

It’s lovely, but does anyone else feel more hungry after eating oatmeal?

I’m ravenous.

Friday

Lately, I’ve been having dreams where I feel completely out of control. Last night, I was driving a car that was speeding down a hill, even though I had my foot pressed all the way to the floor on the brake. Similar scenarios have been playing out in my dreams over the past few days.

I think it’s my anxiety making an appearance. Maybe it senses that something new is brewing and is desperately trying to put the brakes on. The body is a funny thing.

Then I woke up, opened Substack, and came across this post from Kimberly Wheeler:

“For those of you on the edge of a big decision or big life change…

American poet Lorine Niedecker reminds us that change is often preceded by anxiousness and the answer is to move:

‘Birds feel something akin to pain (and fear) just before migration. Nothing alleviates this feeling except flight.’”

Maybe I’m just a bird ready to fly?

Saturday

Every morning before I got on the bus to go to school, my dad would say to me, “Make it a great day, Abby!”

It wasn’t until much later, as an adult, that I understood what he meant. It wasn’t “Have a great day.” It was “Make it a great day.” There was a difference.

Things don’t always fall into our laps. Feelings don’t always magically appear. Days don’t always go the way we plan. But when we take an active approach to our lives, we give ourselves a much better chance of creating the life we want. We won’t always have great days, but we always have the opportunity to turn them around.

We have some control over our own happiness if we choose to “do life, and don’t let life do you.”

So today, I’m remembering what my dad said to me all those years ago and choosing to do just that.

And now, every morning before school, I tell my son, “Make it a great day, James!” I want him to know that he has the power to create meaning in his day, too.

Sunday

I get an early start to the day and head to the grocery store. I’m making a heartwarming stew for dinner, something I can get started in the afternoon and have simmering away until we’re ready to eat.

At the store, I notice that the Christmas Coke is out, with the iconic Santa on the packaging. It reminds me of when I was little and my grandma would put up the 7Up Santa calendar in the kitchen. She would stick a cotton ball on it for each day as we counted down to Christmas.

The things we remember.

Once the stew is finished and simmering, I decide to treat myself to an afternoon at Starbucks. I can’t escape the Christmas feeling. The holiday cups are out, and evergreen garland is on display to give everything a festive feel.

I guess there’s no point fighting it. It’s time to embrace the holidays.

As I sit enjoying my chai latte and a little time to myself, I get a text from James asking me to pick him up a Frappuccino.

I guess I can’t escape my role as a mother, either.

Until our next cup of tea,

Abby ❤️

Monday

I’m hooked on La Fermière pressed lemon yogurt. I’ve been chasing the taste of the yogurt I had in France, and this is the closest I’ve found.

They’re pricey, but for $3.59, I get a few minutes of indulgence and a little reminder of my time in Paris. I think it’s worth it.

Plus, I adore the little clay pots they come in. I already have nine stashed away in the cupboard.

Tuesday

I take Henry and Lucy outside to play in the backyard. The leaves look magical confetti on the ground, but I can’t help thinking about how soon they’ll disguise the death-trap holes they have dug all over the yard.

Later, I meet with my menopause clinician. I’m hoping the 0.05 increase in my estradiol patch will cure my perimenopausal rage.

I watch an episode of the Lizzie Borden Netflix series before bed.

Wednesday

Scheduled the annual furnace tune-up.

Made appointments for Henry and Lucy to get their nails trimmed (separately, or else it will chaos).

Picked up my prescription.

Mailed a birthday card to a friend.

Confirmed James’ Halloween sleepover with his friends.

A bit mundane, but it feels good to get things ticked off the list.

Thursday

A beautifully blustery fall day. I love watching the leaves fall down. The only downside is that you need to wear a helmet so you don’t get concussed from the pelleting acorns.

Friday

The benefit of having so many La Fermière pots? I can have pothos cuttings all over the house.

After work, I talk to my therapist about my newfound rage. She thinks it might be my teenage self finally coming out. Being the “easy one” growing up has definitely stunted certain parts of me.

She suggests I give her a name.

I think I’ll call her Selena for now.

Saturday

There’s something elemental about today. I can feel it. Maybe it’s because it’s All Hallows’ Eve.

I feel connected to something slightly familiar, yet entirely new. I don’t quite understand it, but I go with it.

I put on music and dance. The wind is blowing, and leaves are whipping up around me. Am I changing, or is it just the season changing?

As we get ready for trick-or-treating and welcome James’s friends over, I look out the window and see two bluebirds fly into the garden and land on our arbor. I smile. Whenever I see a bluebird, I think of my dad, the bringer of happiness. Halloween always was his favorite holiday.

Sunday

James’s friends head back home, and I clean up all the empty candy wrappers. Today is a day for relaxing. Ger lights the fire, and I spend the afternoon watching Ted Lasso. I look up Nigel Slater’s Christmas pudding recipe and try to figure out where I can find suet.

Until our next cup of tea,

Abby ❤️

Chapter One: Welcome to Acorn Hill

This story is dedicated to the believers of magical places and dreamers of faraway lands.

“Honeyed wildflower meadows with hidden mossy knolls. Gardens as far as the eye can see. There are tall oak trees and ancient woods full of ferns and great, great mystery.”

“Oh, please tell me more! Don’t stop. I want to know more about Acorn Hill!” the little girl exclaims.

The grandmother picks her granddaughter up and twirls her around in her arms. “Okay, but remember, these stories are not for us to keep. We must share them and pass them on to other believers of magical and faraway places. You must promise me this.”

“I promise,” the little girl beams.

Inside the fort of quilted blankets and dancing fairy lights, the stories of the ancient and enchanted place of Acorn Hill forever changed the little girl’s life.

****

Dear friend, that little girl was me, and it’s time that I pass these stories on to you. In these pages, you too will experience the magic of Acorn Hill, a faraway land home to my most cherished woodland friends. I invite you to listen to their stories and join them in thrilling adventures.

****

“Welcome to Acorn Hill,” the wooden, swaying sign says as you enter the village.

We first come across Miss Penelope Pea, a rather fun and whimsical little mouse, always twirling and dancing about. Penelope lives with her Grandma Rose. Their home is cozy and warm and always smells of fresh fruit scones and wild strawberry jam. Grandma Rose has the most wonderful herb garden outside her gravel path. This is where Penelope loves to sit and write about her daily adventures.

Next to Grandma Rose’s cottage lives Fern. Fern is one of Penelope’s oldest friends. She has a younger brother, Finn, and they share a home with their mom and dad, Mr. and Mrs. Appleberry. Fern and Penelope share a love of drawing. You can often find them in Ms. Maple’s tree house, which they have turned into an art studio, with permission, of course.

Down the lane, next to the hawthorn hedgerow, is the home of Mr. Blackthorn and his niece, Poppy. Poppy is another one of Penelope’s best friends. They have been friends since mouse school, inseparable ever since.

Last, we travel to the old stump, which is located just outside the ancient wood, where Penelope’s friend Dash and his family live. Dash lives with his two moms, Olive and Clem. They sell scrolls of parchment made from the branches of the great oak tree. You will often find Dash working at the shop after school.

****

It’s August at Acorn Hill, and Penelope and her three friends, Fern, Poppy, and Dash, are lying on the beach at Mr. Frog’s pond. Penelope and Fern are giggling, debating if the clouds look like yummy Victoria sponge cake or a jammy trifle.

“One of each, please!” laughs Penelope.

Next to Penelope and Fern is Poppy, who is neither thinking about Victoria sponge cake nor jammy trifle. Instead, she is napping under the shade of rush, a grasslike plant that lives at the edge of ponds. The perfect place to rest on a lazy afternoon.

Mumbling to himself is Dash, who is deciding whether he wants to go for a swim or sunbathe. “The water looks tempting, and Mr. Frog has just fixed the wooden dock,” Dash thinks to himself. “It would be the perfect place to practice my dive.” He wants to be in the Acorn Hill Olympics one day.

“No time like the present!” Dash decides.

But before he has the chance to steady himself on the dock, a gust of wind ripples across the pond, moving the hornwort back and forth in the water, tickling Poppy’s paw and waking her from her afternoon slumber.

“Oh, what a lovely dream that was,” Poppy says as she uncurls her paws and stretches them in all directions. “I had a dream we were on a sailboat racing down the Wye, trying to find hidden treasure.”

“I want to find hidden treasure!” Dash exclaims as he runs over to his friends.

“Me too!” says Fern.

“But it was only a dream! Do you really think someone has hidden treasure in Acorn Hill?” Poppy asks skeptically.

“There is always treasure to be found. You just need to believe, Poppy! We need a plan. Let’s gather supplies, and then we will be ready to begin our adventure to find this hidden treasure!” says Penelope.

“Yes! Let’s do it!” replied the group.

Penelope, Poppy, Fern, and Dash run back to Grandma Rose’s cottage and excitedly tell Grandma Rose of their plan to find the hidden treasure.

Grandma Rose packs four cucumber sandwiches and four of her famous fruit scones and jam in a basket for Penelope and her friends. She waves goodbye from the garden fence and wishes them well on their journey. “Look out for the fireflies. They will help guide you on your way!” Grandma Rose calls out.

“Thanks, Grandma! We will be back once we have found our treasure!” Penelope calls back.

“We have delicious snacks. What else do we need?” Fern asks as she holds up the basket full of food.

“A map! You always need a map when you are looking for hidden treasure. Right?” Poppy explains.

“Good thinking, Poppy,” Penelope replies. “Dash, do you think we could use some of the parchment from your shop to create a map?”

“Of course!” exclaims Dash. “Follow me!”

Side by side, they march to the old stump with a half-filled basket of cucumber sandwiches, one less fruit scone, and crumbs on their whiskers…

But what happened next? Well, dear friend, that is a story for another day…our adventures in Acorn Hill have only just begun.

Abby ❤️

One thing that makes autumn feel so precious to me is the seasonal traditions that bring our family together. And one of those traditions is apple picking at Russell Orchards.

We’ve been going to Russell Orchards since before James was even born. I remember the first time we took him. He was only a couple of months old and wearing the sweetest blue sweater with little bear ears. He doesn’t love when I reminisce about how cute he looked.

But here we are, thirteen years later, still apple picking at our favorite spot.

Located in Ipswich, a coastal town on the North Shore of Massachusetts, the drive to Russell Orchards is part of the charm. Antique shops and art galleries sit alongside lobster shacks. It’s quaint, unmistakably New England, and the perfect place to visit in the fall.

When we arrive, generations of families and couples are ready for their apple-picking adventures. The farm shop is filled with baked goods, apple pie ice cream, apple cider, and the old cider mill. Outside, squash, gourds, and pumpkins of every variety surround the shop. And then there’s the smell of fresh apple cider donuts coming from the donut stand.

I ask whether we should go apple picking first or get our donuts first. The vote is for apples, so onward we go.

We decide to skip the hayride and walk to the orchard. We pass the pond with the ducks, stop for a picture at a bench in the field, and continue on to the orchard.

I’m starving. It’s 11:30 AM, and all I’ve had since 7:30 is a yogurt. I pick an apple, or two, to tide me over.

We head for the Honeycrisp trees, our favorite, and pick a mix of Honeycrisp, McIntosh, and Jonagold. Most of them will find their way into the apple pie I’ll make later.

We pass trees with trunks twisted and contorted in ways that, as James says, “look haunted.” Fitting, since I’m wearing my Halloween sweater covered in black cats and witches’ hats.

Our bag is filled to the top, and we decide it’s time to head back. The breeze carries fresh sea air along with the scent of dried grass and leaves.

If only I could bottle it up.

We join the line for apple cider donuts. As we wait for our turn, we watch them being made right in front of us. The woman dispenses the batter into the hot oil, flips the donuts, and sends them along the conveyor belt before they disappear into a white paper bag.

We order half a dozen.

By the time we reach the car, there are only one and a half donuts left.

Back in the car, we drive to Boat House Grille in Essex for lunch. This is a relatively recent addition to our apple-picking tradition, but I think it’s here to stay.

I order the lobster roll. It arrives overflowing with lobster, so much that I have to use a fork to eat it.

Then comes the universal sigh that means we all know it’s time to go. We pay the check and head home.

Driving home along the winding country roads, with views of the salt marshes stretching beside us, I feel happy.

These autumn traditions are more than another item on the calendar. They give us a reason to slow down, spend time together, and return to the little rituals that make a family feel like a family.

And next year, I know, we’ll be back. Hopefully in the same Halloween sweater, with another bag of apples and a few more donuts than make it to the car.

Until our next cup of tea,

Abby

Partie Un ❤️

Partie Deux ❤️

Lundi

There is a light drizzle, perfectly moody for a Parisian morning. I have some time to spare, so I walk down Boulevard Saint-Germain to Ralph’s Coffee. I arrive at 9:00 AM, just as they are opening the doors. I’m the first one to arrive.

Bonjour, Madame. Je voudrais une limonade, s’il vous plaît. Merci.

The woman at the counter hands me a freshly squeezed lemonade with a sprig of mint. How is it possible to make a lemonade look so beautiful?

I sit against the green crushed velvet cushions and enjoy my drink.

I walk back to my hotel, and the rain has nearly stopped. The cool air is turning humid.

Later that morning, I meet the group for a perfume-making class at Fragonard. Alexandre Makhloufi, a professional “nose” and self-taught perfumer, welcomes us into our classroom laboratory.

We learn about the complexity of creating a perfume. After walking through each essential oil, we are left to create our own fragrance.

While others are carefully deciding on their ingredients, I go with my intuition. It feels like creating a magical potion, filling my pipette with varying amounts of oils.

My perfume includes notes of citrus, bergamot, neroli, and lavender. It’s light and lovely.

We get the opportunity to name our perfume.

I choose Pénélope.

Transforming from Penelope Jones to Pénélope Saint-Clair, the French me.

Pénélope is a flâneuse who believes in the art of living well: lingering over tea, wandering beautiful streets, savoring good food, and making room for beauty in ordinary days. She is curious, feminine, and quietly romantic, with a fondness for the little pleasures that make life feel magnifique.

Every time I spray Pénélope, wherever I am, I hope it reminds me of this piece of me that comes alive in Paris.

Before our next stop, we enjoy lunch at Le Grand Colbert, a place of dramatic mirrors, white tablecloths, and Old-Parisian drama. You may remember it from the movie Something’s Gotta Give, with Jack Nicholson and Diane Keaton.

I fully embrace the French experience and try escargot for the first time.

The waiter sets down my “tools,” which feel somewhat surgical. The plate arrives with six snail shells, and I start to name them.

You are Benjamin. You are Pierre...

The table looks at me like I’m crazy.

The waiter shows me what to do with my tools. He scoops out the snail with the smallest of forks. It is dripping with parsley and butter. He places it on a piece of bread.

I steady myself as everyone watches, close my eyes, and try my first snail.

Oh! Wow.

I’m surprised.

C’est délicieux!

So sorry, Benjamin. So sorry, Pierre.

After a leisurely lunch, we make our way to the Palais Garnier, Opéra national de Paris.

The Palais Garnier feels almost impossibly lavish, with sweeping marble staircases, gold leaf, velvet, chandeliers, and painted ceilings at every turn. It is the kind of place that makes you stop walking simply because there is too much beauty to take in at once.

Our tour includes access backstage. We stop for a moment to watch a ballet dancer practice for tonight’s ballet, L’Histoire de Manon. She is young and excitable. I think our presence makes her a little nervous. Her giggles give her away.

Through a series of stops and a winding staircase, we make our way down to the basement to see the old wooden pulley system and the underground lake.

Perhaps my favorite part of the tour is seeing the costume workshops and walking into the room hung with beautiful white tutus, some even designed by Chanel.

What a magnificent place, full of history.

It was a long day, and the traffic was unmoving, so I decide to cancel my dinner plans at Brasserie des Prés.

Instead, I stop by my local café, pick up a jambon-beurre baguette, get into bed, and watch Emily in Paris.

Bonne nuit.

Mardi

My final full day in Paris...

Today is all about the splendor of the 6th arrondissement.

We begin our stroll down Rue Jacob and stop at Alix D. Reynis, where we meet Alix herself and admire her gorgeous porcelain.

I purchase two tiny porcelain candlestick holders, the thinnest powder blue and Prussian blue taper candles, and citrus-scented matches.

Something small to remind myself of my time in Paris when I’m back home.

We wander down Rue de Furstemberg and come across a quiet, almost hidden square. It was once home to French Romantic artist Eugène Delacroix.

On one side is Flamant, a florist, and on the other, Compagnie Française des Poivres et des Épices.

I buy a small tin of Sel de Camargue and Mélange pour Poulet Rôti.

As I’m about to leave, I smell the Sucre Tonka and fall in love.

This sweet, almost pistachio-scented sugar is nothing like I’ve ever seen before.

I join the queue again and think about all the special treats I could sprinkle my tonka sugar over.

After lunch at Café Madame, we walk through the Jardin du Luxembourg. This time, I learn about the coveted honey made in the garden’s historic apiary and sold only once a year.

Oh, how delicious that honey must taste.

My last evening in Paris ends at Le Procope.

Founded in 1686, Le Procope has been part of Parisian life for more than three centuries. Once a gathering place for the philosophers and writers of the Enlightenment, stepping inside feels like stepping into another chapter of Parisian history.

I snap a few photos of Napoleon’s hat before enjoying my last sips of champagne.

We say our goodbyes, and everyone goes their separate ways into the winding streets of Paris.

The reality of leaving will have to wait until tomorrow.

I want to stay in this magical Parisian fog for a little while longer.

Mercredi

I wake up early to finish packing. I want to enjoy my last breakfast before the taxi arrives.

As I’m putting my treasures into my suitcase, I realize that I really should have bought another one. The biscuits, confectionery, and antique finds really do add up.

I have to sit on my suitcase to get it to close.

Not très chic.

Have I learned anything?

As I wait in the lobby for my taxi, I watch the world unfold outside. Locals zooming by on bikes, parents walking their children to school, and shopkeepers opening their doors.

It’s just an ordinary Wednesday.

Of course, there are many things I will miss.

Swinging open the windows and looking out onto Rue de Buci.

The champagne.

The BUTTER.

The way you say bonjour as a way of saying, “I see you.”

But perhaps most of all, what I will miss is how I feel when I am here.

There is a part of me that has cracked wide open. I don’t think enough tape or glue will close it back up either.

I am changed.

I met a version of myself I think has been there all along, but was just waiting for permission to emerge.

Before I began this trip, I was quite nervous. Paris was an unfamiliar place, and I am certainly not fluent in French, so I created a character to help me push through the anxiety.

I’m so grateful for Pénélope.

But as I leave Paris, I realize I didn’t need to be anyone else to hard things.

I can just be Abby.

Au revoir, Paris.

Merci beaucoup.

Abby ❤️

(Did you miss Partie Un? Click here to read.)

Vendredi

I meet the group at Sandra’s Parisian apartment, not far from my hotel. We head to Versailles to meet Molly Wilks, a pastry chef, for our baking class.

As we drive down the main boulevard, I fall in love with Versailles. Not the ornate palace, but the calm, residential town filled with trees and greenery. It’s a welcome break from the constant buzz of Paris.

Our class is held at the beautiful La Boutique Royale de Versailles. The shop is filled with beautiful soaps, French toile, and lavish gifts. It’s the sort of place where I want to look at absolutely everything.

Molly and her bright personality are a welcome treat. She teaches us how to make madeleines and macarons, sharing invaluable baking tips along the way. Afterwards, we get to taste her creations.

I have to say, a French macaron is miles ahead of any macaron I’ve ever tasted.

After our baking demonstration and a little shopping, we walk over to Vous to get the full experience of déjeuner in France.

I’m still dreaming about the pavlova aux fruits rouges. The tart berry coulis, the vanilla cream mousse, the sweet meringue.

Wow.

If I could, I would have licked the bowl.

Our next stop is the gardens of Versailles.

I have to be honest. Once you’ve seen one clipped box hedge, you’ve seen them all.

Not that I wasn’t impressed, because I was, but I prefer gardens that are lush and overflowing, a little different from the tightly trimmed French jardins.

The afternoon sun is beating down on us, and the summer heat clearly hasn’t received the message that it’s almost October.

I am dripping.

I’m so happy to spot a little stand in the garden selling freshly squeezed orange juice.

“Un jus d’orange, s’il vous plaît, monsieur.”

“Oui, madame.”

He takes half an orange and squeezes it.

Half an orange, squeeze.

Half an orange, squeeze.

Half an orange, squeeze...

Five times.

“Merci beaucoup, monsieur.”

It is the best glass of orange juice I have ever had.

We arrive back in Paris with just enough time to change for dinner. The Pope is in town, traffic is backed up everywhere, and streets are closed.

Our dinner destination is a surprise. All we know is that tonight is the night to put on our most Parisian attire.

I put on my black dress, red heart earrings, red Drew glasses, and red lipstick. I am as Parisian as I can get.

With a little spritz of my perfume, I’m out the door.

The car ride across the Seine takes over an hour. But while we wait in traffic, we get to see the Pope’s motorcade pass by.

I’d like to think the Pope and I are practically best friends now.

We arrive at Le Train Bleu, the incredibly ornate restaurant inside the Gare de Lyon. It feels as though I’ve stepped back in time to La Belle Époque.

Le Train Bleu was built in 1900 by the architect Marius Toudoire. The ceilings are painted with scenes of Paris, Lyon, and Marseille.

The waiters are part of the show, entertaining us with tableside service. The flames of the crêpes Suzette draw a crowd of “oohs” and “aahs.”

My favorite part of the meal is the pistachio soufflé with sour cherries.

Sensing a theme?

We arrive back in the 6th around 11:30 PM.

I glance at the countdown on my phone and realize I have just 25 minutes to complete my Duolingo lesson or lose my 380-day streak.

If only it knew I’d been practicing French all day.

I make a quick call back home and head to bed.

Samedi

My alarm is set for 6:30 AM, so I won’t be rushing through the streets to meet the group like yesterday. It is so not très chic to rush.

I wake up at 7:23 AM to my alarm buzzing.

All good plans and all that, right?

It’s okay. I go down to breakfast.

“Bonjour, madame.”

“Bonjour, monsieur.”

The server remembers my juice order.

I have eggs, small French sausages, crepes with hazelnut spread, and the most delicious peach yogurt. It’s so good that I pull the label off so I can remember it for later.

The server brings out a chocolate gâteau and places it on the buffet.

“This is a homemade chocolate cake. You must try some.”

When in Rome... I mean, Paris.

I finish my slice of chocolate gâteau and get ready to leave.

The server clears away the plates, along with my yogurt label.

Ahh...

Well, there is always tomorrow to try to get another one.

I pocket two macarons as a snack for later.

Today we are going to Foire de Chatou, a twice-yearly Parisian brocante. We receive instructions on how to label any antiques we buy and how to fill out our purchase books if we need to use the shipping container.

I’m only half listening because I’m only looking for small treasures that can fit in my suitcase.

There is everything from copper watering cans, French flatware, ornate armoires, vintage Chanel and Burberry, and everything in between.

I wander past every vendor, gazing at their wares.

It’s customary to say “Bonjour” to each vendor you meet and “Au revoir” when you leave.

“Bonjour, monsieur. Combien?”

“Dix euros, madame.”

“Oui, merci.”

I end up with beautiful French clay pots, a bronze bird, an antique wine corkscrew, a very tiny wooden stool, a double-handled clay vase for my husband, and a wooden walking stick.

Among the antiques, there are also little places to stop for something to eat or drink. I decide to take a break and enjoy a glass of champagne before lunch.

After lunch, I’m exhausted and head back to the hotel. I don’t stay for long, though, as there are many more shops I want to visit.

Le Bon Marché... La Grande Épicerie de Paris.

I’m a lady on a mission.

I fill my basket with confectionery, chocolate and biscuits, cola-flavored marshmallows, and sweet hard candies for James, hoping the sugar high will make up for my time away.

I wander around the Épicerie and am offered a sample of caviar. I’ve never had caviar before, so I decide to try it.

The first kind is a bit too overtly fishy (imagine that), but the second, the more expensive one, is moreish and delicate.

The longer I walk around, the more I feel pressured to buy slabs and slabs of french butter.

Would I like to buy the famous Maison Bordier butter? Yes.

But the crowd of people around the display, all non-French, has taken the shine off it. I start to feel like I’m caught up in a TikTok trend and leave sans beurre.

Later that evening, I treat myself to dinner at Ralph’s.

I put on my vibrant blood-orange midi dress and head downstairs. The concierge tells me I look très magnifique.

It makes me feel like a million bucks.

Google Maps leads me astray yet again, and I end up going in the wrong direction.

Now is not the time to get lost.

With only minutes before my reservation, I pick up the pace.

Once again, not very très chic.

I arrive at Ralph’s and walk through the stone arch into the beautiful courtyard, where trees are covered in twinkly lights and oversized umbrellas shelter the tables. The tables are laid gorgeously with mismatched white and blue china.

I order a coupe de champagne and the warm lobster salad. For dessert, strawberry cheesecake, because there is always room for dessert in Paris.

C’était délicieux.

The sun starts to set, and by the time I’m finished, the glow of the candles is the only light around me.

Dimanche

I wake up with the windows open. The cafés are waking up, too, and I can hear the clink of glasses and the scraping of chairs being brought onto the sidewalks.

In the background, the garbage truck empties the bins up and down the street.

The sky is filled with pink and purple clouds, and the air is cool. I hear a shopkeeper sweeping the wet sidewalk. Bikes pedal down the Rue de Buci on this beautiful Sunday morning.

Good morning, Paris.

Today is another day of treasure hunting, but this time it’s at Le Marché aux Puces de Paris Saint-Ouen, a place of great historical significance for antiques.

I am pulled once again to the tiny wooden stools. For only 20 euros, I buy another one.

I have to stop myself from buying any more. Two is okay, but three? That’s just turning into an obsession.

After antiquing, we head to L’Arrosoir, the oldest floral shop in Paris. You walk in, and the scent of flowers fills the air. You can just feel that this is a place saturated with history. How many memories have been made here?

The lovely Lucille gives us a demonstration on how to make the perfect hand-tied French bouquet in the campagnard style. It’s meant to look like you’ve just picked flowers from a wild meadow.

We each get a bucket of flowers to create our own bouquet. It’s not so easy to do, twisting and turning, ensuring you create something wild yet beautiful.

I don’t fuss too much and let the flowers go where they want to.

When I arrive back at the hotel, I am stopped by Sanjay, the hotel concierge.

“Oh, madame, les fleurs sont magnifiques!”

I think he was the same person who called my dress magnifique. But I don’t mind. I’ll take the compliment.

Sanjay takes a few photos and tells me that he loves photography in his free time. He has a Nikon and a Canon at home.

After our photoshoot, I go up to my room, swing open the windows, and put my bouquet on the windowsill.

I promise myself that I will give myself extra time to get ready for dinner.

At 7:30 PM, I turn off Masterpiece’s Moonflower Murders and put on my new navy blue dress that I got at Monoprix. I add my red heart earrings and pearls, and I’m ready.

This time, I arrive at Georgette for dinner sans sweat.

Ahhh. Oui.

The Caesar salad is très délicieux. It has farmhouse chicken, the tiniest pieces of crispy bacon, sliced Parmesan, and buttery croutons.

Is it the best Caesar salad I’ve ever had, or is it just because I’m eating it in Paris, I wonder.

I’m not sure.

Does it really matter?

As I’m writing this (which is usually while I am at dinner), I have a feeling the couple next to me thinks I’m a food critic or some sort of travel writer. Maybe it’s because I’m dining alone with a notebook out, pen in hand.

They discreetly look my way and then at each other.

It’s either they think I have an ulterior motive for being there, or I have something stuck in my teeth.

Maybe both?

Shortly after, they finish their meal and wait for a taxi. The waiter discovers that the woman has forgotten her shoe.

We look at each other and laugh and call her Cinderella.

I wonder if she’ll come back.

To finish the evening, I order the seasonal berry vacherin.

A cloud on a plate, with meringue and French vanilla ice cream.

I end the night how I started, with a puff of clouds painted in beautiful colors.

My Paris adventure wasn’t over yet.

Not quite.

Until our next cup of tea,
Abby

Lundi

As I get closer to my trip, I start to feel the anxiety creeping in.

What if this once-in-a-lifetime trip doesn’t feel once in a lifetime? What if, after a year of studying French, I won’t even be able to order a glass of wine? What if I catch James’s cold and spend the entire week miserable?

While I know life is unpredictable, I decide that, to help myself over the hurdle, I’ll create a persona for myself to take to Paris.

Someone cool. Someone who makes her way in the world with poise and confidence and has a little... je ne sais quoi.

Her name is Penelope Jones.

She is a cultured yet down-to-earth antique dealer who visits Parisian brocantes regularly, scouting out little gems to sell back in her shop in England. Penelope loves wandering the cobblestone streets of the 6th arrondissement, and most afternoons you can find her en terrasse at a local bistro, sipping a glass of champagne.

I would describe Ms. Jones as a mix between a Samantha and a Bridget.

Samantha’s energy, but Bridget’s warmth.

Penelope is ready for Paris. She effortlessly packs her bags full of stylish yet colorful outfits. Alongside her pearls, she throws in her Keds sneakers for the long days of walking the city.

She’s ready for her big trip.

Mardi

Today is all about checking things off my checklist.

Nails painted. Tick.

Movies downloaded for the plane. Tick.

Bags mostly packed. Tick.

I’m 24 hours away from Paris.

Mercredi

Somehow, I knew taking a propranolol this morning was needed.

As I’m making sure all the last-minute bits are packed away and that I have my passport and important information for my trip, a text pops up on my phone.

“Your Air France flight from Boston to Charles de Gaulle has been cancelled.”

WHAT???

My heart drops to what feels like the bottom of the earth.

No. It can’t be. What the hell am I going to do?

As fast as my fingers can go, I go on the website, trying to figure out how to rebook. I know it’s a matter of speed because others will also be trying to get on the next flight to Paris, and I don’t have time to waste.

I find the customer service number and dial.

I remind myself to be pleasant and as patient as possible.

A lovely woman answers and apologizes for the inconvenience. The best they can do is rebook me on British Airways with a layover in Heathrow and then a flight to Charles de Gaulle if I want to stay in business class (business class was part of the treat to myself for this once-in-a-lifetime trip).

I’m not sure I can handle a change in airports, a layover, and all the unknowns right now.

I ask if there are any other Air France flights.

They have one this evening, but it’s not business class.

At this point, I don’t care.

I take it.

I’d rather go straight from Boston to Paris with the least amount of stress possible.

I’ve had enough of that today.

I remind myself that Penelope Jones can handle this.

Jeudi

10 AM Paris time, and I have arrived.

I grab my bags and head to the taxi stand. I pull out my notecard of French phrases and do some last-minute studying.

“Bonjour, Madame...”

“Bonjour, Madame,” I reply.

She directs me to my taxi.

“Merci.”

“De rien.”

“Bonjour, Madame.”

“Bonjour, Monsieur. Je vais à l’Hôtel de Buci. Voici l’adresse,” I say, handing him the notecard with the address of my hotel.

“D’accord. Hôtel de Buci.”

We start down the autoroute, and I feel so proud.

I did it.

I spoke French, and he knew what I was saying.

I arrive at the hotel around 12 PM. My room is not quite ready, but they offer me a drink and to hold my bags.

I walk to the Jardin du Luxembourg for lunch at La Terrasse de Madame.

The waitress invites me to sit. I ask for “Une carafe d’eau” and order the steak au poivre avec frites.

As I wait for my meal to arrive, I eavesdrop on the women next to me. I imagine that they have been friends for ages and are spending a Thursday afternoon catching up on all of the local gossip.

Trees line the open courtyard. Their feather-like leaves are green and golden.

The women next to me ask me to watch her coat while she goes to the toilettes (at least, that is what I think she asks).

I say, “Oui.”

After a leisurely lunch, I stroll along the sandy path of the garden. I find a spot to sit on the Parisian sage-green chairs and call home.

All is well.

I sit for a while, but not too long. I feel the jet lag on my heels, and I fear that if I don’t get up and move, it will pull me down.

I walk around the garden admiring the statues, but primarily, I am intrigued by the little semicircular garden borders that look as though they’ve been made from sticks.

I bend down to touch them to see if they really are made of sticks.

They are. I think.

On my way back to the hotel, I stop in the church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, the oldest church in Paris, built in the 11th century, and light a candle for my dad. I buy a four-euro candle for the Pope’s visit and think it would make a nice gift for my mom.

It’s 4:00 PM, and I’m delighted to find out that my room is ready.

The elevator is broken, so I have to wind around a spiraling Parisian staircase to the third floor. In reality, it’s the fourth floor, since the French call the ground floor the ground floor, not the first.

Regardless, I am out of breath when I reach my room.

I open the door to my room and voilà!

I’m in love.

The room is decorated in classic French style, with beautiful fabric covering the walls and flowing into a crown over the bed. I feel like I am part of the charm of old-world Paris.

The lights are glowing.

But my favorite part...

I open the windows.

And I am in Paris.

I stand at my little French balcony, looking out over Saint-Germain.

I can hardly believe it.

My Paris adventure was only just beginning.

Until our next glass of champagne,

Abby

Monday

Henry chewed our beautiful John Hanley pillow.

The bathroom electrical outlet won’t work.

My husband’s car is rattling.

Is this when we start blaming Mercury being in the microwave?

Tuesday

At lunchtime, I decide to take a walk at Macomber Reservation, my favorite local forest. I bring my stack of notecards with me so I can practice some French phrases before my trip.

When I arrive, I am mesmerized by the autumn that has touched this place. Goldenrod is growing thickly in the meadows. The grasses are turning red and are illuminated by the afternoon sun.

It’s gorgeous.

The brook has run dry, but as I sit on the moss-covered bridge, I can see a small trickle moving slowly over the pebbles.

This walk is more like a wander. It is not for exercise or any other purpose but to notice and observe, exactly what I needed.

I hear a bird in the distance. It sounds just like when you flick your tongue to make knocking sounds. I suspect it’s a woodpecker, but I don’t know for sure.

Trees precariously bend and contort their bodies in ways I’m not sure how they are still standing.

I feel like the character in the book I’m reading. Wild and at home in the woods. October was connected deeply to nature.

Unlike her, I was never a nature girl when I was younger. I hated school field trips to the nature center. Dreary brown walls and dead bugs all around.

But now... I get it.

As for those notecards?

Well, they stayed tucked away in my jean jacket the whole time.

Wednesday

Today I realized that life’s too short not to cut your peanut butter and jellies into triangles.

Thursday

This morning, I played hide-and-seek with the squash.

I went on a hunt to see how many I could find. I counted eight, but I have a feeling some are better hiders than I am a seeker.

Friday

Between Taskmasker commercials, I flip through my French notecards.

Une table pour un, s’il vous plaît. A table for one, please.

Puis-je m’enregistrer plus tôt ? Can I check in early?

Pouvez-vous m’aider ? Can you help me?

As I say m’aider, it hits me.

Oh my goodness.

Is this where the distress signal “Mayday” came from?

It makes so much sense.

It’s so satisfying when your brain figures something out all on its own. It’s like finding hidden treasure.

Saturday

We head off to Boxford for the annual Boxford Apple Festival. It’s the first fall event of the season, and it’s filled with apple crisp and vanilla ice cream, local vendors, games for kids, and goats.

James loves goats, and when we found out that these goats needed adopting, I knew what we were in for. From that point on, it was a game of trying to convince us we should take one home.

“How would we get them home?”

“Buckle them up in the backseat.”

I insisted that while they were adorable, we were not getting another animal. Two dogs are simply a handful. I cannot handle another one.

We were still talking about the goats that evening.

Sunday

Early morning in the park with Henry before the afternoon rain.

It’s so quiet and calm. I find a twisted, knotted-up tree with burrows in the bark and a family of squirrels running up and down it. I imagine that they are siblings chasing after each other after their mother told them to go outside and play.

The field is taken up with geese. Every few minutes, you can hear honking in the distance as the next group arrives.

I wonder if it’s a family reunion or simply a convention to discuss very important news.

Tonight’s dinner: homemade pizza. I’ll chop some red onion, peppers, and broccoli and scatter them on top with fire-roasted corn and fresh mozzarella.

A simple yet delicious way to end the week.

Until our next cup of tea,

Abby

Monday

It was one of those “it does what it says on the tin” kind of days. Labor Day came with lots of little tasks.

After a walk for myself, which has become unusual lately as I’m usually joined by at least one of the dogs, I passed out flyers around the neighborhood for our yearly block party. My friend and I plan it every year. We get the street closed, I put up a tent, and we invite the neighbors over for a little neighborhood gathering.

Usually we host it in September, but the month got away from us, so October will have to do. We can call it a harvest festival if need be.

I took Henry to the park for more training. Because he’s leash reactive, walking him around the neighborhood in the middle of the day can be difficult. The local park has a wide-open space where we can keep enough distance from everyone that he doesn’t freak out.

I won’t lie, his reactivity has been such a stress for me.

But despite that, it was lovely being in the park today. So many people were out and about. A couple flying kites. Kids on the playground. An older man with his fold-up chair and a blanket in the shade of the trees.

It was really nice.

The rest of the day was filled with all those necessary but mundane tasks: laundry, taking the bins out, helping with homework, packing the school snack bag...

Domestic labor.

Tuesday

Picking out a book to read next is probably as exciting, if not more, than actually reading it.

I love to read by the season so I can really feel the world I’m jumping into. I’m currently reading Women Who Run with the Wolves, but to be honest, I’m having a hard time really immersing myself in it. So, I think I need something a little lighter.

For my trip to Paris, I have The Gastronomical Me by M.F.K. Fisher packed. It’s a travel and food memoir, which feels perfect for reading while I’m having a glass of champagne en terrasse. I didn’t want to bring some cliché “Paris” book that says I’m a tourist.

Once I get back, I plan to start October, October by Katya Balen. I’m intrigued by how it will transport me into the natural world. Then, as we get closer to Halloween, Little Witch by Anna Elizabeth Bennett will be there to remind me that the ordinary world can be magical.

I don’t typically read fiction, but maybe these children’s stories will surprise me. Maybe they’ll touch something I didn’t know was there.

Wednesday

It was one of those up-at-3:00-AM nights.

I started thinking about how sleep is such a strange thing. We all need to lay down and sleep. As I pondered this, a question popped into my mind...

Do worms have to sleep too?

What? Where did that come from?

In case you’re now curious, yes, worms do sleep. Well, they rest. Not quite the same as humans, but good enough for me.

Back to bed.

Thursday

The garden called to me this morning.

I decided to join her for breakfast. I picked a few flowers and put them in a vase, gathered my yogurt and blueberries, and brought a book outside.

I sat peacefully for a few minutes, read a few pages of my book, and relaxed.

It was lovely to catch up with her.

Since I set her free, I feel like I’ve been avoiding her. But it’s nice that she’s welcomed me back in.

Friday

Does anyone else put Bake Off on for their dogs?

No?

Just me?

Saturday

Eye appointment today. I can’t remember the last time I had one. Some things get better with age. Vision is not one of them.

I come out with a prescription for reading glasses. I could get a pair at the pharmacy, but I use this opportunity to fulfil my dream of being a glasses wearer and head to Warby Parker.

I don’t pretend I haven’t been looking at all the options online for weeks, but now that I’m face to face with them, I must try them all.

I’m immediately drawn to these wacky, bold, raspberry-red ones.

No decisions made. We need to head back to pick up our son from a morning of fishing with his friends.

I come home still thinking about picking out my first pair of glasses and decide to head back out.

I can’t wait.

I’m greeted by the employees, and they are just so nice. One woman asks if my shoes are Rothy’s. I know exactly the ones she’s talking about. I say no, mine are the other ones that start with the “V.” I can’t remember the name exactly.

I wander around and go through all of the glasses at least three times, taking pictures and trying to decide. I keep getting pulled back to the raspberry-red ones.

I try them on for what feels like the hundredth time.

The employees gush over them.

But can I trust them?

I ask them to be honest, and they all confirm they are the ones.

After a few clicks of a button, my Raspberry-Red Drew Warby Parker glasses are ordered.

I think about how fun they’ll look with the outfits I’ve picked out for Paris.

I just hope they arrive in time.

Sunday

I’m trying this new thing where I keep my same sleep schedule even on weekends. This means bed around 8:00 PM and up at 5:45 AM.

Henry, of course, follows me downstairs and promptly falls asleep in his little bed.

It’s so beautifully peaceful this time of morning, both inside and outside.

To wake myself up a bit, I go outside. All I can hear are the buzzing bees and the birds.

I look inside an open squash blossom and see a bee rolling around in the pollen. It immediately reminds me of a kid playing in a ball pit.

I hope he’s having fun.

I suspect today’s dinner will be an easy one: spaghetti, garlic bread, and a well-dressed salad.

There’s homework to do and a week ahead to get ready for.

Until our next cup of tea,

Abby

Monday

First day of school.

I insist on a picture and am naturally met with resistance. I convince James I only need one.

My camera roll says I took twenty-three.

Tuesday

It starts to rain as I pull into the parking garage. The last time I was here was ten years ago, when James broke his arm.

I have no idea where to go. Like a maze through endless corridors, I finally find the right office.

I walk up to the desk to check in, and the receptionist asks the reason for my visit.

I manage to squeak out, “Mammogram.”

In the waiting room, there’s a mix of anxiety and confidence. You can tell which women have been here before and which are there for the first time, like me.

They call my name.

I go back for more images. It’s a little more intense than Thursday’s mammogram, but I get through it. Then I’m ushered into another waiting room.

This time, all the women are wearing the same purple cotton gowns as me.

The room is warm. It’s welcoming. It smells nice. I’m sure they’ve designed it that way, in case someone is about to receive bad news. There’s none of that familiar sterile hospital smell.

I’m convinced I’m fine. I’m just wasting their time when they could be helping someone who actually needs it.

I’ve checked my breasts countless times since they told me to come back.

It feels like I’ve been waiting forever.

My technician reappears in the doorway.

“I need to bring you back in. The radiologist wants more images.”

My chest feels tense. I’m frightened.

I walk into the room and see a picture of my breast with a circle around one spot.

She positions me in the 3D mammogram machine.

“Don’t breathe.”

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick-tick.

“Breathe.”

I’m not sure I can.

Back to the waiting room.

Then another woman calls my name.

Time for the ultrasound.

She tells me my left breast looks fine.

Phew.

But they want another look at the right.

I lie back as she spreads warm gel across my skin and moves the ultrasound wand over my breast. For a brief second, I’m transported back to being pregnant with James and having a sonogram.

When she finishes, she tells me the radiologist will be right in.

She isn’t.

I wait.

The anxiety creeps back.

I try the 5-4-3-2-1 exercise my therapist taught me.

A curtain.

A sign that says Clean.

The hospital bed.

Cabinets.

A picture of a rose on the ceiling.

The gel on my chest.

The washcloth in my hand.

The buzz of hospital machines.

Footsteps in the hallway.

My own thoughts.

Finally, the radiologist comes in.

She’s lovely.

She takes the wand herself and spends a few more minutes looking.

Then she explains that she sees an area of different density, but she believes it’s simply breast tissue and the HRT I started this summer could be causing the change. She wants me to come back for another mammogram in six months.

I leave feeling... unsettled.

Should I feel relieved?

Probably.

But it feels like a door has opened that I wasn’t ready for.

Later that afternoon, my results appear in my health portal.

BI-RADS 3. PROBABLY BENIGN.

I get stuck on the word “probably.”

Wednesday

A very welcome beautifully ordinary day of work, tea, and shopping for my upcoming trip to Paris.

I try to decide between the hot pink and red sneakers and the white and forest green.

My heart says the hot pink ones.

My head says the white ones. They’ll go with more outfits.

Thursday

There comes a point in the season when I let the garden go wild.

I don’t try to tame her or interfere. No more deadheading flowers. I leave her to breathe. Let her hair down a little.

I never know when this time will come. It’s just a feeling, like my garden is speaking to me, saying:

Please let me be.

Friday

There is a heavy haze in the air today. It’s so thick, I can see rays of sunlight touching the grass.

Against my better judgment, I take both dogs on a walk together. They act like they’re about to go on a hunt in The Fox and the Hound.

Like the garden, sometimes I think they can’t be tamed.

Saturday

A stack of wood has been sitting in the driveway since July.

Lighting the wood burner when the weather gets cold is one of our favorite things. We ordered a full cord this time because we ran out last year. We weren’t going to let that happen again.

Every day, I look at the wood and think about the large task ahead of me.

Today was the day I finally got started.

I enlisted the help of James. Nothing like the promise of a little pocket money to get the job done faster.

A few hours later, the driveway is clear.

Sunday

The rain doesn’t know if it’s coming or going. Lashing down one minute, sunny skies the next. It feels a little like the week I’ve had

I spend the morning binging How to Get to Heaven from Belfast. Around 1:00 PM I decide it’s time to get a shower and head to the store. On the menu tonight, lasagne.

Shiiiit. I forgot the garlic bread.

Until our next cup of tea,

Abby

I open my laptop and brace myself for a mountain of unread emails. It’s not too bad. The fall semester is creeping closer, and I’m quietly grateful I got ahead of the work before we left.

I take a late lunch and head to the park with Henry. We practice his loose-leash walking and building his confidence. He jumps up onto the stone wall by the playground and prances along it. I have a feeling he thinks he’s one of the kids.

When I get home, I make fruit scones. Once they’re out of the oven, I put them on the cooling rack and promise myself I’ll wait until they’ve cooled before having one.

It takes exactly two minutes to break that promise.

I slather one with strawberry jam.

Tuesday

A beautifully ordinary Tuesday. An early morning walk. I see the family of deer again. The babies look like they’re getting bigger. I know the feeling.

Wednesday

Do you ever feel you are in the midst of a full moon cycle before you know that you’re in one? That’s how I have been feeling lately. Powerful forces are colliding, and it’s jostling me back and forth. I have a cosmic headache.

Out to dinner with a friend, I order fries with mayo. It takes me back to the time Ger and I were in Amsterdam on our honeymoon. We ordered patatje speciaal (fries and mayonnaise) from an open-air market.

I think this was just before I wrecked the canal boat on the Prinsengracht.

Thursday

I put my top back on after my mammogram and decide to treat myself to a latte before going back to work. I have my book with me and read a few pages exploring the psychological meaning behind the story of Vasalisa and Baba Yaga, the wild woman.

To drown out the pop music, I put on my headphones and get lost in the sound of Celtic fiddle music from the Scottish Highlands.

Somehow, I feel powerful. Connected to my inner Baba Yaga. Connected to this Celtic version of myself.

Friday

My body often knows the seasons are changing before the calendar says so.

I wake up and the light is different. I’m tired. I don’t have the same drive to get up and work out that I did a few weeks ago.

A little voice in my head says, It’s time to rest. Go slow. Enjoy the stillness of the morning.

Maybe I should listen.

Saturday

We spent the week at Walt Disney World celebrating our son’s 13th birthday. Between the heat, sweat, and endless walking, there was screaming on rides and plenty of family memories.

I won’t lie, we are wrecked. You know going into it that it’s not going to be a relaxing type of trip, but it will be fun.

Epcot is my favorite park, and I especially love wandering around France and pretending I’m on the streets of Paris. I was lucky enough to meet up with a good friend one evening in Epcot. We got the most delicious raspberry macaron with lime curd from Les Halles and ate it by the fountain as the sun was going down and the twinkly lights were coming on.

Between park visits, Ger and I stole a little time together. We found a quiet spot to share a drink and talk about the future. The kinds of places we’d love to live one day. The kind of life we’d like to build when we’re empty nesters. It’s funny how those conversations seem to find us when we step away from our everyday routines.

On our last day, James turned 13. He chose to celebrate by going to Magic Kingdom. After spending the morning doing most of the major rides, we went back to the hotel to rest and pack.

Since we were staying at Animal Kingdom Lodge, we were able to go back later that night when the park was quieter. Dodging the rain, we made our way to TRON, my son’s favorite ride. A must-do, especially on such a special day.

I got a Mickey pretzel while my son and husband got in line. The fireworks started, and I watched. I popped in my Loops to try to dampen the sound. Why do fireworks have to be so loud?

Around midnight, we made our way to the exit, knowing that tomorrow we would get to see Henry and Lucy again.

Thursday

Flight home, and we go straight to pick up the dogs. They are so happy to get out of the boarding facility that they don’t recognize that we are the ones helping them escape.

I always feel strange whenever I come back after being away. You realize that life just moves on without you. Somehow, you are the outsider.

The garden looks different. The town looks different. The neighbors discuss things that happened while you were away. Even the house seems so quiet.

It’s time to inhabit it again.

Friday

I barely have the energy to get a shower. I spend the day in sweats with wet hair.

Today is for the couch and the pups.

Saturday

Slightly more energy, but still in my sweats.

I watch All Aboard! Scotland’s Poshest Train with Alan Cumming. I learn about Arisaig, a small coastal village in the Highlands. Arisaig means “safe place” in Gaelic.

I go down the rabbit hole and decide that this is definitely a place I could live. I look up the local pubs, shops, and climate.

Everything suits me, except for maybe the midges. I’m sure there is a way around that.

A remote stone cottage. Walks along the sheltered bay. A cozy life by the fire.

Yes, this sounds about right.

Sunday

I venture into the garden for the first time since we’ve been home. Somehow, this is when it feels like I’ve really returned.

The squash vines are taking over everything, and I love it. Tendrils spiral around the arches and even the climbing hydrangea.

I pick three hidden cucumbers. Two are rather large, and one is small and wonderfully odd-shaped.

I top up the wildlife pond with fresh water, suspecting it’s had a rather dehydrating week.

By lunchtime, I make a start on dinner and begin preparing tonight’s cottage pie.

I open the windows as it starts to pour. I wonder why I even bothered watering the garden earlier.

Then again, I love it.

Until our next cup of tea,

Abby

Monday

It’s déjà vu. I’m driving back for another dentist appointment. But this time, I notice a few leaves flickering with the orange of autumn.

The dentist shakes my hand as I go to leave. Maybe he’s not so bad after all.

Tuesday

I can’t even think about the garden today. We’re going away soon, and Henry and Lucy are doing a trial run at their boarding facility.

I know Lucy will be fine, but Henry is terribly fearful of other dogs. I watch the webcam diligently all day, refreshing it far more often than I’d like to admit.

Wednesday

Day 2 of daycare and I’m less apprehensive. Henry doesn’t spend the whole time hiding in the playhouse. I call that progress.

When I pick them up, he leans against my leg for a second before we leave. I think he’s relieved too.

Thursday

The cooler morning is a welcome change for my walk. I listen to Dish, one of my favorite podcasts, and today they’re talking about spaghetti all’assassina.

There’s something comforting about listening to people discuss food while I’m trying to remember a hundred little things before a trip.

The suitcase is still empty, the to-do list is still long, and I’m feeling that familiar mix of excitement and anxiety that always seems to arrive before a trip.

Until our next cup of tea,

Abby

Monday

A dentist appointment on a Monday morning at 8:00 AM. It’s as fun as it sounds.

Why do dentists always make you feel like a child who’s been caught doing something bad?

I go home and have a bowl of apple and blackberry crumble just to spite him.

Tuesday

Another afternoon at Starbucks with my new favorite chai latte.

I take a sip and have an instant flashback.

It takes me back to when Ger and I were living in San Francisco, where the changing seasons felt almost nonexistent. It was October, and I was desperate for even the smallest taste of autumn. I knew exactly where to go: the Williams Sonoma in Union Square.

The moment I walked through the doors, I was greeted by shelves of burnt-orange ceramic pumpkins and every autumnal delight imaginable, all while palm trees swayed outside. That day they were handing out samples of warm pumpkin spice bread.

It was everything I had been missing.

In that single bite, I finally felt like I’d found the autumn I’d been chasing.

I walked out knowing we belonged back East.

Wednesday

It’s just me, Henry, and the many neighborhood bunnies this morning. The half moon hangs directly above me, and the sky is brushed with soft pink and purple paint strokes. I love this time of day.

I pop on a podcast, and the guest is Nigella Lawson. God, I wish I was as sexy in the kitchen as she is.

Henry and I walk through the little path that connects us to the next neighborhood, and suddenly the sky opens up. The clouds are perfectly positioned, as though they’ve turned into sunbeams.

I turn the corner and see a deer standing in someone’s garden. (I’m hoping Henry doesn’t notice.)

When I return home, I water the garden. The willow bush I was worried about seems to be just about surviving. All of the squash blossoms are open for business.

I stick my nose into one and find two bees inside. I feel as though I’m interrupting something, so I decide to move on quickly.

Thursday

Woke up deciding I needed a haircut right away, as per usual. I made an appointment for 10 AM. Received confirmation that it had moved to 11 AM. No problem.

I show up, the door is locked, and the lights are out. I wait on the bench outside for someone to show up. Five minutes later, I check the confirmation email again.

Ahh. 11 AM tomorrow.

Since I still have some time left on my lunch hour, I decide to make chicken, leek, and potato soup for dinner with the leftovers from our Sunday roast. The chicken stock I made with the bones yesterday will be perfect for it.

I’ll serve it with an Ancient Grain Batard (never heard of it either) and a lovely cheese board with raw honey, sliced pears, a few spreads and jams, dried apricots, a few nuts, Manchego, and French Brie.

As I’m stirring the soup, I put on the kettle and pop the last tea bag from the box into my mug. I love the feeling of using up the box and opening a brand-new one.

The recipe for the soup calls for a bay leaf, but I doubt the bay leaf from 2014 is going to do much. Still, I put it in the pot anyway. Will this teach me to buy fresh bay leaves in the future? I doubt it.

Meanwhile, I hear Henry crunching on something in the living room. I hope it’s a stick he snuck in from outside, but it’s not. I try to wrestle James’s purple colored pencil from his mouth.

There is purple all over the couch, but I don’t have time to clean it up. I have to get back to the soup. The timer is beeping.

Some days you have hours on a Sunday to prepare a lovely meal, and other days you have 30 minutes between meetings.

C’est la vie.

The tea goes cold on the counter.

Friday

My phone reminds me it’s time to prune the lavender. With my snips, I gather a bunch and feel as though I’m no longer in Massachusetts, but in Provence. I just wish it wasn’t too early for a glass of rosé.

I have some extra time this morning, so I sit outside and have my breakfast. I notice a squirrel sitting perfectly still on a stump, like a statue. It only moves to scratch an itch, and then it scurries away.

It’s 10:45 AM and time to go for my haircut. I hope I have the right date this time.

I arrive and am warmly welcomed. A few inches off and I feel like a new woman. I needed to do something to help beat this heat.

After I’m out of the salon, I call my husband to see if he wants to meet at the pub for a celebratory drink for our 16th wedding anniversary. Along with our son, we have the place all to ourselves and reminisce about the spectacular champagne reception we had at the Cliff House Hotel in Ardmore, Ireland, on the terrace overlooking the sea.

Saturday

I dig out a huge clump of oregano to make room for the new raised bed. It grows like a weed, so I’m not worried about it. I am covered in dirt and sweat.

Our drill is so powerful that I know I could do some damage if I’m not careful. There are tools strewn across the ground: levels, shovels, a bag of screws. I always think a project will take less time than it actually does.

Three hours later, three of the six raised beds are officially put together and level.

Sunday

I’ve always been a very determined (and sometimes stubborn) person. It works out great when I’m working on a project because I know I’ll get it done.

I decide to take on the raised beds again this morning. I finish one and decide it’s time to stop.

This is where determination and stubbornness can get a little blurry. I know I could keep going. But I also know I’ll regret it later.

So I put down the drill.

Dinner tonight will be an easy one-pan meal of Italian chicken sausage, peppers, and potatoes.

Until our next cup of tea,

Abby

Monday

A trip to Six Flags. Not exactly my natural habitat, but it does make me feel like a good mom. Two teenage boys happy. One exhausted mom. Nothing a cup of tea and an episode of The Great British Bake Off can’t fix.

Tuesday

I can certainly tell who is the most popular girl in the garden: Ms. Anise Hyssop. At any given time, I see at least twenty bees dancing around her. Just as I begin counting, a monarch butterfly swoops by. This is exactly the type of day I needed after yesterday.

Wednesday

There's that feeling in the air that it could pour at any minute. It’s every gardener’s dream. I open all the windows and wait for the first drop.

The birds are chirping away. I wonder what they say to one another before a rainstorm. Do they feel as cozy in their nest as I do in my home?

I can feel the humidity rising, waiting for it to be washed away. There is nothing better than a summer rain in late July.

By the afternoon it is pouring down. The fairy lights create a warm glow against the gray skies. It feels like the perfect excuse to tuck myself into a corner at Starbucks with a book. I order my first chai latte and I’m in love. Autumn is on its way. As I sit there and read about wild women, I feel content.

Thursday

Don’t know if it’s a cold coming on or allergies. Whatever it is, I’m down for the count.

Friday

Friday is houseplant watering day and each room is full of them. The pothos is climbing around the window, while the aloe pups are kicking the mama plant out of the pot. Why does this feel strangely familiar?

Saturday

The cold won’t let go of me, and I’m desperate to get back to the garden. I manage to water my plants and deadhead my calendula before I have to sit down. A bunny scurries away into the yellow loosestrife and hides. I tell her it’s okay. She’s welcome here.

There’s a house up the street that was bought and bulldozed, along with many mature trees. I walk past and see an empty bird’s nest lying amongst the rubble.

Sunday

On today’s menu:
Herb & Lemon Roast Chicken
Butter-Braised Leeks
Roasted Carrots
Arugula with Lemon Vinaigrette
Apple & Blackberry Crumble with Vanilla Bean Ice Cream

I put on my apron and dust off my tabletop apple peeler and corer. It hasn’t been used since last autumn. It’s time to make apple and blackberry crumble for dessert.

In a bowl I mix Granny Smith and Honeycrisp apples with blackberries, brown sugar, flour, spices (making sure I grab the cinnamon and not the coriander by mistake), lemon, and a pinch of salt.

I steal an apple from the bowl. Delicious.

The crumble topping is scattered over the mound of fruit before the dish disappears into the oven.

Next come the carrots and leeks. Lots more peeling and chopping. I head out to the garden with my snips and cut a big handful of lemon thyme for the braised leeks and to make the compound butter for the chicken.

I find a box of stovetop stuffing in the cupboard and decide to make that as well. Because why not have all the trimmings, even if it is August?

The chicken is lovingly tucked into the oven, ready to turn golden.

James is at a trampoline park with a friend, so tonight it’s just me and Ger around the table. It feels like a little glimpse into our future when we’re empty nesters.

Until our next cup of tea,

Abby

Monday

Traditional seasonal calendars never quite worked for me, so I created my own: A Year of Ordinary Magic.

It’s not a calendar of holidays or goals, but a collection of weekly invitations to notice the season I’m in and the ordinary moments that make it special.

I’m especially looking forward to Citrus and Spice week this December.

Tuesday

My new raised beds arrived. Hooray! My current beds have decided to become one with the earth again and have disintegrated into the ground. I built them ten years ago (almost to the day). They have stood up well. I took the opportunity to invest in beautiful cedar beds from EarthEasy. I have had my eye on them for many years.

The beds arrived in eight big boxes. I felt terrible for the FedEx driver. As he walked away, I opened the door, waved, and mouthed, thank you. Luckily, the dogs didn’t notice.

Wednesday

Full day in the office today. It doesn’t happen often, so I can’t complain when I get the call to come in. I treated myself to an M&M cookie on my afternoon break since I had eaten 80% of my packed lunch before I even arrived at work. Why am I hungrier when I go into the office, vs. when I am working from home?

Thursday

Half day today.

Took Henry for training. He’s building up his confidence. He didn’t particularly like the rubber mat, but he did show courage by jumping up on the raised box.

When I got home, I went straight to building my raised beds. Instructions called for leveling out the space first. I pretended not to see that and put the pieces together anyway. I got three partially done and took a look. Should have listened to the instructions. Lesson learned.

Friday

The garden looks brilliant. Even though it’s in a state of transition, I still appreciate what’s there. I may never see the Echinacea bloom because of the bunnies, but I can enjoy the Black-Eyed Susans. They are always the star of the show this time of year anyway.

Saturday

New day, new approach. I’m going to slow down and enjoy the day. I don’t have to take Henry and Lucy for a walk, I get to. I don’t have to build my raised beds, I get to. No more rushing through “tasks” just to say I’m done.

I decided to start again with the beds. No more cutting corners. I will do one bed, take my time, and do it properly. If it takes me until the end of autumn to get all six built, then that is what it will take. And boy, is it worth it. It’s looking much better than before.

I celebrate by making a cherry and almond cake. It’s delicious. It goes well with my evening cup of tea.

Sunday

Today is for lavishing the long summer days.

Enjoyed a glass of Rose from Provence in the sunshine. Played with the dogs in the backyard. I’m trying to teach them not to bark as neighbors walk by. Needless to say, I may need to buy more treats.

This evening I made:

Shrimp Scampi Linguine
Arugula with Lemon Vinaigrette
Crusty Bread & Irish Butter
Enjoyed on the deck with the family. Even James enjoyed it. I consider that a success. Beautiful evening with a slight breeze. We watched a hummingbird stop at the honeysuckle and a goldfinch stop at the bird feeder. I wish I could bottle this feeling.

Until next week,
Abby

Up for an early morning walk with Henry and then some strength training, you know, as you do when you’re forty-something. Then it’s a slow walk through the garden while I water.

The squash blossoms are open for business, hoping to entice a curious flying insect.

I rub my hands along the mint leaves. Although I’m not really a mint person, I love having it in the garden. Along with my chocolate mint, I added strawberry and Indian mint this year. Scent in the garden is a must.

The new agastache and salvia I planted last week are doing well. It felt a bit irresponsible to plant during a heat wave, but being the impulsive person I am, I did it anyway. I may regret moving my precious willow, it’s looking a bit toasty. But, I had to make room for my new garden beds. Oh well. C’est la vie.

My native beds look beautiful if you pretend not to notice the bitten-off stems of the sedum, black-eyed Susans, and echinacea, courtesy of the resident bunnies and deer. I can’t be too upset, I remind myself, since I’m just a steward of the garden. I don’t control it, nor would I want to. The garden is really for them.

After my wander through the garden, I sit outside with a cup of English Breakfast tea. I can smell the lavender. It is glorious, especially on this beautiful summer morning.

The birds fly from branch to branch before stopping for a drink at the pond. This particular morning, what I think is a gray catbird lands on the arbor covered in honeysuckle and calls out what sounds like...

“Eric. Eric. Eric.”

Who the hell is Eric?

I don’t know.

But I do hope he finds him.

I finish my tea and get on with my day.

It’s 7:30 a.m., and time for work.

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Apparently, one Google Drive is not enough for all the idea that I have collected.

Each version of me had a dedicated home. The me who wanted to be a social changemaker. The me who became a garden designer and consultant. The graduate student. The writer. The collector of half-finished dreams and future plans.

The problem is that when you're looking for something you know you once saved, you can't bloody find it.

Did I tuck it away in my Little Free Library drive? My random Projects drive? The gardening one? Who knows?

Perhaps one day I'll rediscover the piece of writing I meant to share. Until then, I'll chalk it up to one of the hazards of being curious.

The curious life is a bit untidy. You collect more than you can possibly organize, wander down too many paths, and leave breadcrumbs everywhere.

But I think I’d rather spend my life searching for old treasures than wishing I’d never gone looking in the first place.

For as long as I can remember, I've been enchanted by the things that ask us to slow down and notice.

Some were real places. A London pub where I spent a summer. A garden full of strawberries and chipmunks. Villages I have wandered through and villages I have only explored through books and maps.

Some were worlds of ideas. Gardening. Puppets. Nature. Wine. Food. Storytelling. The quiet art of creating experiences that make people feel welcome.

For years I thought these interests were unrelated. I worried that I couldn’t settle on one thing. That perhaps I was always chasing the next idea. Like a hummingbird racing from honeysuckle blossom to honeysuckle blossom, staying just long enough to glimpse the flower before darting away.

But lately I’ve begun to wonder if the thread was there all along.

Maybe I wasn’t changing directions.

Maybe I was following curiosity.

I like to go deep into life and into these fantastically interesting worlds. I want to know why a Chardonnay from Burgundy is so different from a Chardonnay from Napa Valley. What makes a garden feel magical? How a 41-year-old woman can embrace her wildness as she enters midlife.

Should you help a worm cross the road?

And if you do, what if you move it in the wrong direction?

These are the sorts of things I must know.

This little corner of the internet is a place for the things that catch my attention: gardens, books, beautiful places, food, wine, travel dreams, stories, and the small moments of wonder hidden in ordinary days.

Think of these as field notes from a curious life.

If any of that sounds familiar, pull up a chair, pour a cup of tea, and stay awhile.

I hope you’ll come wander with me.