You can learn a great deal of things about a person during a session at the laundromat. The stains that populate the clothes they buy. The way they occupy themselves during the spin cycle. Whether one decides to fold or throw after the timer goes off, into dirty duffel bags or bright plastic hampers.
Me: I’m the girl with too many flannels, not enough brassieres, writing post cards in the sunniest corner. A takeaway long black sits in front of me as I slowly sway to the generic, poppy playlist overhead. (Hungry Like A Wolf up next. Independent Women on deck.) I’m the one telling the handsome man at dryer 9, “Wait! I’m not ready to go yet! I’ll help you fold in a few minutes when I finish what I’m working on.”
-K
^ Laundry day a few weeks ago near Nelson.
^ A few overdue wine wrap-ups. Mud House p. gris (8/10) and Mount Ara s. blanc (8.5/10)
^ Oyster Bay s. blanc (5/10)
^ &Two of my best recent cooking adventures!
^ More food and drink shtuff: preparing my morning coffee at the river like my ancestors must have done.