Soul Thief

"The glow of the leaves on the trees outside might be an eternal Vermont."

Well, actually, I've got a rose trellis, flowering for the third (fourth?) time this year.

Still, I've got the Green Mountain State on the brain. Last weekend I walked and shopped and nibbled away at Seattle with a dear friend who just moved west from the east, and I found myself getting teary eyed looking at her beer fridge (not plugged in, no beer inside, but still a beer fridge), plastered with stickers from Vermont. Gear shops, breweries, co-ops, everything.

As the kiddos here scramble back to school and homework, my inner nerd misses that rush of energy associated with starting things. I'm also nostalgic for fall in Vermont. Don't get me wrong, I'm a California girl who is just perfect with a nice 72 degree day, but there's something so incredibly (cliché and) romantic about zipping up tall leather boots and listening to them click clack on the floor, or rolling down the windows on a drive to (the soon to be closed, RIP) Vergennes Laundry to feel the cool breeze before opening the flimsy front door and inhaling a swirl of steamy, yeasty, air (plus a cardamom bun).

I try to live a life without looking back and worrying myself about "if I had done X differently, then Y would have happened." I am proud to have graduated from a tough (!) college with the highest academic honors, but I often wonder "what if I had gotten into the food thing and done all these other things before I went abroad? Where would I be now in my career? Why didn't I take full advantage of my proximity to farms, dairies, and breweries? What if I hadn't done X internship and instead stayed at school and worked on the organic farm one summer?" 

But what good does that do me? In my mind, it's still the eternal Vermont, as it was, which in reality, was a lot of time in the silent section of the library.