RecipeMuncher

Papa was a rolling stone. Well, he was. Mostly he was random, thin blue airmail letters from whatever country he was living in at the time. Once, when I was almost eleven, he was an invitation to France. Settled for the time on a working lavender farm, I was parceled over for part of the summer. I learned a few things that summer: It is lonely living on a farm where nobody speaks the same language as you. Avoid the guy who tries to pick you up by your head. Lavender itches when it is in y (...)