Tonight my friend Ingrid and I had a delightful little supper at coffeehouse in a nearby town. While there, the owner of the coffeehouse did a little kindness for me, and he was so very excited about it, that I must write it down. After I ordered, of all things, a cheese sandwich, Dave came over and asked if he could make my sandwich with gruyere. He then went on and told me all about the gruyere cheese in Europe and how it is pretty crummy here, but he has a friend who makes it for him, and he keeps it at the restaurant for quiches and such but he'd really like to share it with me. Would I mind if he made my sandwich with gruyere? How could I refuse?

He brought it to me on a croissant, and laid it at my place as though it were a precious gift. And it was. Light and snowy, made of goat's milk by the hand of his friend. Dave came back later to check on us, and we spoke of the gruyere at length, the freshness of it, and the rarity. By the time we were finished, it was as if he had washed my feet, that man. His offering buoys me up even now. Love from the kitchen of an acquaintance, offered up on a croissant with lettuce. I am blessed.