No matter how hard I try, I can’t make those perfect days in Portland longer. Twenty-four hours is all I get and there aren’t many left to this one.
I have things to do and my driver has to make a Boston run after dropping off pocket money to his son.
So after more than an hour, I rip myself away from this living picturesque image and make my way back to Match.
We did stop at the corner cook shop to inquire about soup. I could see plenty of servings of roasted fish and conch, wrapped in foil and kept hot on the grill. But didn’t know what was left in the big pots. I’ve arrived sometimes when the cook was removing them from the fire because the contents were finished.
Tonight, one of the helpers lifted the large, heavy steel lid allowing a cloud of steam to escape into the evening atmosphere. The over-sized ladle stirred the still cooking soup with ease.
“Yes, Miss. Still plenty soup we have. Large or small?
Yes, it was a fantastic day.
