home is friends

In our 300 year old cabanon, inhabited by many dormice (outside on the tiles and upon occasion, inside, squinting at us from the beams), we love having friends to dinner downstairs, by the ivied wall, preceded by a glass of white or a pastis upstairs, overlooking the field. Last night we had 16 of those, some new, some less new,  all part of Bonnie Cobb's family, with the children scampering about in the field before dinner, this time upstairs. Suddenly there appeared an amazing pink cloud, blimp-shaped, with Rachel Cobb taking pictures of it with her husband, Morgan Entrekin, accompanied by a few of the children, flying a kite, Dean King signing his new book for us, Unbound, about the women on Mao's long march, and assorted other friends doing assorted other things, like bringing up the lentils and chicken and tomatoes from the kitchen downstairs to the very long table upstairs. The Cobb family and the Hapgoods from Richmond, brought a large bouquet of flowers and an amazing group of cheeses from Vigier in Carpentras, and all sorts of breads, to say nothing of the great wines from Cassis and Vacqueras and Gigondas... An evening after my own and  many other hearts. We've no longing to go home, since this too is home. Friends are, in fact, home.