Sunday, at the pool

No soup this Sunday—just pancakes, pool water, and the humid dread of waiting.

Happiest of Sundays to you, dearest reader,

For the first Sunday since February, or maybe it was March, there are no Indian stews simmering in Dutch ovens on my stove. I’m 87 miles from my stove at a 1950s AirBnb that wasn’t exactly updated, as much as it was madeover. The pictures oversold it, but my TJ Maxx candles—and an air conditioner working overtime—wholly neutralized the smell of sweaty walls.

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This one’s not my usual Sunday post—it’s more personal, more “family dispatch,” and includes a rare photo of my kids (something I don’t usually share, for privacy and principle).

Thanks for making space for this kind of writing—and for helping keep it going.

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