Small town, really. Every time I go back to the small town my entire family lives in, I am so glad I don't live there! I love my family dearly, but I would not survive living in that town. I can barely survive hearing the stories. I feel really badly about that...

One of the highlights of the weekend was standing outside in my parents' garden within five minutes of getting to their house, having my dad hand me a still sun-warm tomato he just plucked off the vine, washing it off briefly with the garden hose (my parents were organic before organic was cool) and biting into it right there in front of God and everybody. As the juice ran down my arms, I was transported to another place--a place where hothouses don't exist. There is nothing quite so satifying as that first tomato of the year. It is worth the wait. I stop eating cardboard imitations of tomatoes about mid-June in anticipation of the first real bite of the jewel of the garden, made as God intended. They also sent me home with a "sack" of the lovely red wonders. ("Sack" is Indy-lingo for bag.)

I had sweet tea, biscuits and gravy, a pork tenderloin sandwich (deluxe) at my favorite greasy diner, salad bar(unheard of in the places I've been eating for seven years)rice crispie treats, snickerdoodles, Redpop--all the comfort foods of my childhood. I'm sure it set me back a little on my goals, but it was worth it.

That's the gastronomic report. I'll blog more later...