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My gingerbread porch is where gossip flies, Harley riders are ignored (or roasted), life plans or floor plans are rearranged... and somehow five minutes mysteriously turns into five hours.

Summer on Meadow Lake Farm and twenty acres don't believe in finished projects. More like taking turns. Grass grows faster than my to-do list and six five-gallon gas cans are the minimum requirement for country living. But then the mist rises over Big Indian Lake. And I stand with a stupid grin.

Summer writing is very different from winter writing. In summer, the stories arrive. In winter, the actual pages come alive. Most people assume writing happens when we sit down at a keyboard. Not for me. The keyboard's an afterthought.

I choose summer rhythms rather than rituals. Rituals imply predictability. A routine. We don't get that luxury here. The only thing we can count on is that things will probably change seven times before sundown.

Hospitality has and hasn't changed for me. It isn't gone. Summers and hosting are just way more laidback. Less about presentation. More about getting everyone fed so we can relax on the porch or next to the firepit. So for me, summer hosting is more about dressing up a picnic table.