Dinner is at seven. Breakfast does not wait.

One seating, seven o’clock. We break the long table into smaller ones when the house is quiet. A short menu: a broth or a salad, a fish or a bird, bread, a tart if the fruit is decent.

Wine from El Dorado and Amador, listed without ceremony. If you eat elsewhere, tell the desk by two. We would rather not hold a plate.

Coffee at half-six. Eggs from a ranch down-canyon. Butter we churn on Tuesdays. Fruit when it is good, porridge when it is not. The press is on the sideboard; there is no machine that hisses.

If you are leaving for the trail, the kitchen packs a lunch — bread, fruit, a thermos. Ask the night before.