As I eat the last remaining bites of my curried-potato samosas, I think about how new and fresh the day feels. The academic chaos has subsided until finals next month and I have suppressed all knowledge of whatever is due tomorrow. The apartment I share with three roommates contains weekend visitors. A roommate and I are walking through the Farmers’ Market in Baltimore. Let me say how profoundly amazing and relaxing hunting for fruit and spicy greens can be. Vendors from all over Maryland and beyond convene in a city parking lot under the Jones Fall Expressway between the intersection of Holiday and Saratoga, selling products and produce from cutting boards to pumpkin butter. Babies are strapped to their parents. Dogs are tethered to their owners. People are crowded around the various merchandises. The weather hints at fall with warm summer undertones lingering underneath. I purchase a loaf of orange-cranberry bread and begin scanning for my roommate. As I maneuver my way through the crowd, I laugh to myself about the chocolate milkshake cravings I had several weeks ago. For five consecutive nights the blender and I created some Zen moments with chocolate ice cream, milk, two dashes of cinnamon, and, of course, whipped cream topping. It got a brotha through some tough times and late nights—amen! Life feels good and balanced as I walk back to the apartment with my roommate—talking, laughing, listening, and living in the moment. We each carry bags filled with fruits and vegetables. Often we commune together, sharing our culinary delicacies and catastrophes, our life narratives. However, it’s Sunday and I am beginning to ramble, to lose the day to daydreaming. We have all week, all year. So I’ll see you next Sunday by the Curry Shack at the Farmers’ Market. Look for me in the 70’s leather jacket a la Shaft. I’ll bring the milkshakes and you’ll bring the daydreams…we'll chat over samosas...

…wan love…

...and until next write....