Look who the cat dragged in. Me. It’s me. I am the cat, the dragged, and the in.

I’m back from Bermuda and living in 99% sheer panic about the mountain of emails screaming at me from my laptop. It was amazing, as it always is. Bermuda is my soul’s favorite place to go and hide from the reality of being a small business owner in Massachusetts. Don't tell Graze, she gets jealous when I look at other islands.

But seriously, we’re back, we’ve hit the bronze goddess stage, and I am currently sitting here wondering how many cups of coffee it takes to re-enter society. Is it three? TBD.

Cousin Magic and the 15-Minute Epiphany

The highlight, besides not having to wash a single dish for a week, was watching Georgie with his cousins. You guys, they are adorable together. There is something so special about watching a bunch of little humans who just click. They were looking out for him, making sure he didn't wander off into a cave never to be seen again (though, honestly, living in a limestone cave sounds pretty temperature-controlled and aesthetic right now), and just generally being the best little squad.

And then it hit me. Like a literal ton of bricks.

They only live fifteen minutes away from us back home.

How? Why? How have I let my business owner brain convince me that fifteen minutes is too far to drive for a playdate? I spend my life obsessing over platterbox sizes and making sure the grapes are the perfect shade of expensive-looking purple, yet I haven't been making the cousin magic happen nearly enough. That changes now. Or at least, it changes as soon as I finish the fifty-eleven things on my to-do list.

We did all the things. Beach time? Check. Cave exploring? Check. Eating our weight in good food? Double check. It was the kind of trip where you actually feel like you’re living.

The Great Rum Swizzle Exposure Therapy

Okay, let’s talk about the Rum Swizzle. It’s the national drink of Bermuda. Everyone loves them. They’re fruity, they’re festive, they come in those cute glasses. I really tried, guys. I did the exposure therapy. I sat there and thought, "Abby, be a fun vacation person. Drink the tropical juice-rum-concoction. Be the vibe."

I had one. I had two. I think I had one a day. I tried.

But I’m a dirty Hendrick’s martini girl through and through. I need the brine. I need the olives. I need my drink to taste like it’s judging me slightly. Sorry, not sorry. The Rum Swizzle and I have decided to see other people. It’s not him, it’s definitely me. I’m just a salty-bitch-drink enthusiast at heart. Is that a category? Can we make that a category?

The Paradox: Brain Says Yes, Heart Vetoed It

Coming back to reality has been an exercise in surrealism. My brain has turned into a permanent "nope" factory, looping elevator music every time I stare at a spreadsheet. It isn't just procrastination; it’s a total mental strike.

"Abby, we have two meetings," I tell myself.

Brain: Elevator music intensifies, static white noise ensues.

"Abby, you need to quote that 50-person grazing table."

Brain: Is it lunch yet? Should we just move to Bermuda?

Yet, I am a reluctant productivity witch, moving through the motions while keeping my brain entirely in the dark about what my hands are accomplishing.

It’s becoming a recurring theme, this internal tug-of-war. Lately, I’ve found that even when the brain says yes to the noise, the heart is quick to step in with a veto. It’s a funny thing, this power. Whether it's a catering inquiry that doesn't fit the vision, or a feeling that arrives a little too fast, the heart is the one actually calling the shots right now.

My hands are still playing the role of the business owner, and my brain is still hitting play on the elevator music, but the heart? The heart is the only one in charge of the final draft.

And honestly? I think I’m finally learning that when the heart speaks that clearly, it’s worth listening.

Happy Belated July 4th (And My Crowd Allergy)

Also, happy belated July 4th, America! I hope your holiday was filled with hot dogs, freedom, and zero sun poisoning.

If you live in or around Chelmsford, you know that the July 4th parade here is a Big Deal. It’s basically the Super Bowl of small-town patriotism. We’re talking floats, marching bands, Minutemen groups, and the whole nine yards. It’s widely considered one of the best Independence Day celebrations in the nation, which is cool, but also? It’s a lot.

The parade route goes right down North Road and into the Center Common, which is basically where I live and work. In theory, being open would be amazing because there are a billion people right outside the door. In reality? I don’t do large crowds. I have a physical allergy to being bumped into by strangers while trying to hold a tray of cheese.

So, I opted out. I stayed in my bubble. I love you, Chelmsford, and I love the Minutemen, but I will be supporting you from behind a closed door with central air and exactly zero people touching me.

Daring Myself to Post Content

I’ve been thinking a lot about social media lately (ugh, I know, me and everyone else with a smartphone). I want to start a quick week long series. Just me, some beautiful dairy products, and a little invite to come in Saturday for a taste. Maybe I’ll start next week. I have a lot going on this week.

The problem is that making posts takes brain usage, and as we established, my brain is currently at maximum capacity just trying to remember where I parked my car. But I’m daring myself to do it. I’m going to break down the tasks. I might even take Monday afternoon, lock myself in the shop, and pre-schedule everything for the week. If I can just get the "Monday Abby" to do the work, then the rest of me can just vibe.

The Graze Update: New Faces and Snuggles

Speaking of the shop, things are moving. Slowly. We have big events and small events coming up this month, and since I am currently a one-woman show mostly, the shop might be closed here and there for private events or meetings to look at event spaces. Can’t be everywhere all at once ya know.

But! There is a new girl on the horizon. I’m in the process of training a new hire, and I am so excited. Having another set of hands to help with the hustle means more time for me to be a human. That reminds me I need to call her. And more importantly, more time to spend with Georgie.

He’s at that age where he still wants to snuggle and give kisses, and I know that window is closing faster than a grazing table disappears at a wedding. I want to soak up every single "I love you, Mama" before he decides that I’m uncool and starts asking for a TikTok account.

The Soundtrack of My Relapse

Lastly, let’s talk music. On the way to Bermuda, I was all about my NYC playlist. It’s fast, upbeat, "I’m going to conquer the all the beaches" energy.

Since coming back? I have fallen into a deep, dark, beautiful Sleep Token relapse.

I forgot how many feels they give. If you don't know who they are, they’re are my favorite band but also this anonymous British band that does this weird, gorgeous mix of metal, R&B, and ambient pop. It’s basically a spiritual experience, but with more bass. I missed their last US tour because I was probably busy staring at a piece of brie, and if I ever get tickets to see them, I will simply die. It would be transcendent. I’d be the one crying in the front row while a guy in a mask screams about ancient deities.

On the complete opposite end of the spectrum, I’m also listening to a lot of Tate McRae. They have absolutely nothing in common. One is a masked ritualistic metal-pop hybrid, and the other is a Canadian pop star singing about heartbreak. But hey, variety is the spice of life, right? One minute I’m having an existential crisis to Sleep Token, and the next I’m pretending I can dance like Tate in my kitchen while I prep croissant sammies.

Anyway, I’m back. I’m clearly scattered, very tired, but weirdly enthusiastic. Thanks for being patient while I was away. You guys are the absolute best part of this journey.

Go eat some cheese. Or a martini. Or both. Don’t forget to take the trip sooner than later. One day becomes too late. You don’t want to look back at a life you didn't live. You might find a little spark of happiness that changes your whole life.

XX,

Abby

Song(s) of the day:

Sleep Token-Gethsemane

Tate McRae-Means I Care

I’ve started to view life as a curation- an ongoing project where we choose exactly which textures and sounds make the reality feel a little more like home. My current rotation is split, a perfect tension between the dark, meditative unknown and a bright, sharp reminder of what’s worth the distance. If you need a palate cleanser, go listen to Tate McRae; it’s the perfect, cutting edge to the moody. It’s a delicate balance, keeping one foot in the shadows and one in the light, but I’ve found that even the songs crossing an entire ocean have a way of fitting perfectly into the frame.