Boise farms and potato country. To open my nose, I’d say the fields smell like starch and dirt. I hear the start, rumble, hum of a tractor driven by a farmer in worn overalls and a faded baseball cap. He smells of sweat and dirt. The inventory is full up – barrels and barrels of potatoes, stacked and squeezed together to make it all fit. Potatoes are great and cook so well. There is a smell of oil coming from the kitchen as the farmer’s wife fries up some hashbrowns in a deep skillet. She smiles, hums to herself, and mops her brow. The kids will be down any second; She anticipates the stampede of their rubber soled shoes and rippling laughter. She takes the heat off the eggs, flips the bacon and the hashbrowns. It smells better than a diner. If Heaven had breakfast, I’d smell like this. Soon everything is served and ready for her cherubs. She sneaks a bite of bacon and smirks to herself as she savors the salty crunch of fresh farm life. Red and white checkered tablecloth has gone over the rough wooden table, which as been fully set for breakfast. A small crystal vase sits in the middle with a solitary red carnation sticking out to greet the day. She hears the booming bark of the dog, and knows the children will be down any minute. She wipes her greasy hands on her lived-in apron
Boise, Idaho – A place I’ve never been and know nothing about. Would love to visit, but can’t right now. An odd shaped state I’ve grown accustomed to over time. It would be so different from New York and every other place I’ve ever been, probably.