The sun is cast over the page I write on like a stage light. It's vying with a sky full of clouds to angle down through the screen door of the Bacon Barn, our staff living room. There's a hexagonal coffee table topped with a chess board, bins stuffed with costumes, rough shelves full of disparate books, and a creek flowing nearby. The wind has been blowing hard for several days -- I can't kayak, but it has been fun bobbing around in the chop at afternoon swim club.
I'm reluctant to plunge forward in any particular direction as I try to squeeze everything from the final week here, and my last page of this notebook. The next one is waiting in my bag, ready for Sicily and Spain and scribblings barely legible.
Tonight we host our friends from the main lodge for a big party. I've calculated that a flour sack's worth of pizza will be made in a couple hours. It's my last professional cooking for a few months at least, if doing so in an old prom dress with gin in hand can still be considered so.
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