Day 7: July 2023

Ugh. I’m in bed again. I thought the antibiotics would have done the trick by now…and they’re definitely helping, but I tried to be normal for an hour today (showered and everything) and I nearly collapsed. So here I am, back in bed, scrolling through sunnier, happier, more delicious days. Remembering the meals and sunshine and smiles that made July 2023. Wondering if husband will accept a third summer holiday in the Île de Ré, or if 2024 will take us instead to Spain or Italy or Croatia or Turkey.

The thing is, growing up, I always kind of envied kids who had second homes and consistently spent their holidays in northern Michigan or Palm Beach or Aspen. The predictability. The tradition. The home-away-from-home familiarity of a place that comes from frequent visits. We didn’t have that. We flitted from here to there, and got to explore the US, the Caribbean and Europe as a result. And, don’t get me wrong: I’m grateful for that, for being allowed and encouraged to see the world from a young age.

But that type of exploration precludes the stability I craved, and I suppose I’m trying to build for my little family— with this attempted annual pilgrimage to a French island. With bike rides through hot pine forests. With oysters and gelato and sand dunes and salt flats. With dips in the cold Atlantic. With these rental house meals of market-bought seafood, fresh baguettes and bottles of crisp vin blanc— the best things I cooked or ate in July 2023, with my favorite people, in my would-be home-away-from-home.