Christmas memories

Do you remember the week of Christmas movies NBC would show sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas? For me those were way more exciting than Frosty or Rudolph. The Sound of Music, Home Alone, Beethoven, and Dennis the Menace were my favorites. I loved when my dad would laugh out loud at the funny parts and I’d have to explain what was going on to my younger brothers. Then one year I got to watch Jurassic Park for the first time and forever think of it as a holiday movie now. (Roy says it’s my Diehard.) Best scary movie EVER…with absolutely nothing to do with Christmas.

One time in my 31 years of Christmases my brothers and I convinced my parents that we needed to stay home from all Christmas Eve service obligations. My mom didn’t take much arm pulling, but my dad, being the responsible patriarch and lay leader, required some pretty intense negotiations. Oh, how I remember that Christmas Eve. We enjoyed a simple meal together, my brothers and I read and acted out the Christmas story with our nativity set for our parents, and the house was lit only by twinkly window candles and the tree. I remember heading upstairs for bed and hearing Jessie Norman singing carols on PBS as my mom prepared to finish wrapping stocking stuffers. I felt all was right with the world.

I wish for another Christmas Eve like that every year.

The best Christmas morning surprise I ever received was when I was 8. We’ve been Aldi shoppers for a really long time, and you know how Aldi has the Aisle of Surprises? I love going down that aisle still, because you never know what kind of toys or kitchen stuff or home decor they’ll have on sale. When I was 8 we walked down the Mystery Aisle and they had a whole bunch of toys on display. Among these toys was a collection of dolls. They were about the size of American Girl dolls, but only $6 each. I felt, secretly, that I was probably too old for dolls, but there was one that had beautiful auburn hair named Tracy and I instantly loved her. I told my mom this and she responded, as I expected, “Well, save your money and you can buy her yourself.”

I didn’t have too many opportunities to save $6 as an 8 year old, but I did scrounge and when we went back a few weeks later they were completely out of Tracy dolls. There was a blonde doll, but I didn’t want her. I cried silent tears through the entire store, ashamed for crying and being so disappointed over a doll, but heartbroken nonetheless. I later reset my sights on a Cabbage Patch doll, but knew that nothing would replace Tracy’s perfect face and dark hair. She had loved me too, I could tell.

Fast forward to Christmas morning. This is probably a month or two later, which as you know is a small eternity for an 8 year old. Christmas was on a Sunday that year and we were up early to open gifts before heading to church (my dad being the patriarch and responsible lay leader that he was). There were a lot of wonderful gifts for all and the mood was joyous and festive. Just as we approached the conclusion my mom handed me one hidden, final box. I don’t know what I was expecting—maybe a Cabbage Patch doll, maybe something else entirely. (My parents often purchased us gifts that we didn’t ask for but ended up being the things we loved most.) I carefully unwrapped the paper and saw the most beautiful face looking up at me. I screamed and burst into tears. (A very dramatic reaction for me, if I do say so myself.) I loved that doll and carefully brought her with me to church, left her buckled in the car, and brought out my bestest church friend to peek through the window to see her, secretly still a little ashamed at loving a doll so much.

Tracy still resides in my bedroom closet in my parents’ house. If I ever have a little girl maybe I’ll fluff Tracy up and tell my daughter the story that still makes me cry a little on the inside.

What are your favorite Christmas memories?

Update

We’re there. The musical is over! Both performances were well attended and went off without a hitch. Friday night’s performance was the first time the orchestra made it through the entire 45 minute show without getting off the click at least once. A feat we duplicated only once, on Sunday night. There’s something about getting it right the two times it counts that makes me feel like an Olympic athlete (which, as many of you know, is my secret aspiration-gone-by). There may have been a little fist pumping from the podium… Now that Almost There isn’t consuming my thoughts and calendar, you’d think I’d be sleeping a little better at night and have a little more time during the day. But I’m still having nightmares about forgetting my score the day of a performance or my co-director reaming me out for being unprepared. ‘Tis the season for joy and jolly…

Date Night In December. Roy and I have been ships in the night this month. We feel it, our kids feel it, our house looks it. We decided to do what might be the easiest DNI in the whole book this month just so we had a chance to sit down and relax a bit. We made white pizza with pickled peppers and sausage, a really good salad with homemade croutons and sun-dried tomato dressing, and Roy made incredible caramel popcorn with roasted peanuts that we snacked on while watching a movie in bed. We hope to aim for a more elaborate dinner in January.

Honesty. If I’m being candid, I’m weary. I’m physically weary—chasing two active boys around and putting out their scuffles, keeping Owen out of the breakable Christmas nativity scene, eating James’ gingerbread house, and pulling ornaments off the Christmas tree. I feel as if my attempts to do Christmassy things are only bringing out the controlling, frustrating parts of my personality, which is not good for anybody. (Don’t overlap your cookie cutter cuts, James. You’re holding the cutter upside down again. Don’t put two green ornaments right next to each other. Don’t eat the raw cookie dough Owen. Don’t Don’t Don’t.) I’m reasonably certain I’m not usually so nit-picky, and I think the stress of the month is aggravating it. I’m emotionally exhausted from feeling as if I’m constantly inconveniencing people. Inconveniencing my coworkers when I’m flying in last minute from dropping my kids off.  Inconveniencing my kids by having them spend so much time with babysitters in various locations. The late bedtimes and having to wake them up after they are already asleep to drive babysitters home. Students who deserve a more-prepared accompanist. A husband who deserves a wife who packs his meals ahead of time and spends a little more time thinking about what he needs in the midst of his chaotic concert schedule.

James has started talking in the third person again. Owen bit me this morning. I need a nap. Roy needs a nap and a day without sitting in a car for at least 3 hours.

We kind of see the light at the end of the tunnel. We know, on paper, that the week before Christmas will be home-centered and restful. We know that reuniting with dear family and friends over the holidays will be restorative and joyous. But feeling things is hard right now.

For those of you who are feeling the stress of this month similarly, my heart goes out to you. Take some time to rest if you can. A fifteen minute nap can be miraculous. So can a good piece of chocolate, a brisk walk, or contemplative classical guitar Christmas music. Find somebody whom you trust values you for who you are (not for what you do) and share a cup of coffee.

And know that it will be OK. There is grace and tomorrow is always fresh with no mistakes in it.

The One when I was a Human Metronome

I’m not sure I can adequately describe how frantic the past three weeks have been. Thanks to those readers who have contributed in sending encouraging texts, helped out with childcare, and/or attended some of the numerous performances Roy and I have had this holiday season. We’re already saying “never again” as far as the number of commitments we’ve gotten dragged into. (Some willingly, some kicking and screaming the entire way.)

This week, in particular, has been nuts. And, as a musician, a complete study in contrasts. For one thing, I haven’t touched my flute, which is my primary area of formal training. Instead, by day I am a collaborative pianist for a college trumpet studio. By night I am a director and conductor of a large-scale (dare I say) Christmas musical extravaganza. Let me attempt to describe the schizophrenic nature of this…

I’ve been accompanying trumpet students for a long time. Piano parts for trumpet repertoire are, largely, stupid. It’s either orchestral reductions of Baroque harpsichord parts where everyone knows when you mess up, or complex, rhythmic 20^th century sonatas that take weeks to put together with the soloist. Over the years I have learned most of the repertoire and know every single pitfall in the counting of Hindemith, Stevens, Kennan, Arutunian, etc, etc, etc.

So this week I’ve been catching. And catching. And catching. Hours and hours of lessons putting together music for juries. (Not a single Baroque piece…) I’m not sure I can adequately describe the rapid-fire adjustments that have to happen to smoothly anticipate and catch the hundreds of missed entrances I’ve corrected this week. It’s mentally exhausting, but at least it’s familiar. And there’s an inner satisfaction of knowing how hard I am saving these kids’ butts.

By night I am working with a twenty piece orchestra and fifty member choir of solid musicians. Many of them are professionals, all are more than capable of counting and coming in correctly. It’s a chance to finally forget about rhythm and focus on making beautiful music.

Except.

This darn musical is on a click track. I could write a separate entry on the atrocious click track for this production and how the voiceover reads like the guy was drunk based on the incorrect cues, meters, and wildly unstable click. I could tell you how hard we pushed the publisher to fix it…in 72 hours, knowing it would never happen. And how somebody in Nashville got bawled out and they actually redid the ENTIRE musical for us in time for our dress rehearsal. And how I cried tears of relief. But I won’t. ;)

Instead, by night I smash in my in-ears and turn the beautiful orchestra and choir almost entirely down in my mix and blast The Click until I fear for my eardrums. We play. And the clarinet soloist wants to add some rubato and stretch a lovely melody. I automatically start to ebb with her until I hear The Click. It’s like an electric shock goes off in my brain. “Do Not Follow. Do Not Adjust.”

The orchestra wants to push the tempo. The Click is my master. “Do Not Follow. Shut Your Eyes and Just Keep Conducting.” The choir wants to drag. Once more The Click smacks me upside the head. “Idiot. I am in control. You Shall Not Adjust.”

For, you see, The Click is attached to The Video, displayed for all to see. And if I fail to serve The Click, The Video won’t match the words or the choreographed movements to the music we’re creating in real time. The 45 minute production saps me of energy in a way I’ve never experienced before. Cueing musicians, giving the choir every entrance, word, and cutoff. Praying the others on The Click (piano, keyboard, drum set) are feeling equally as subservient as I so we stay together. All the while attempting to convey joy and Christmas cheer on my face so we don’t look like a bunch of kids taking a calculus final.

I collapse into bed this week unable to keep my eyes open, but my rapid-fire brain won’t shut up for at least another hour. My final thoughts each night have been the imagined dings of text messages from my fellow director or The Click.

I wake up the next morning and ebb and flow and jump and hang back a few more dozen times at the next trumpet lesson.

Coffee coffee coffee…

We're back!

Absence makes the heart grow fonder…

Our family was reunited yesterday after spending most of a week in separate states. Last Thursday I, insanely, drove 6 hours to my parents’ house, dropped the boys off, drove another 90 minutes to the airport, and caught two flights to Charlotte, NC. Roy stayed in NY until Monday morning, when he caught two flights to Charlotte, even as I was on the opposite flights back to pick up the boys. From all accounts it sounds as if they had a marvelous time with Grandma, Grandpa, and Uncle Tim in Pennsylvania. And they had welcome-back-Mommy gifts.

Gift 1: A beaded necklace from James. Bright, fluorescent beads strung haphazardly on a fat green cord. He proudly presented it to me, assuring me he had made it himself and it was for me to “wear to Hochstein.” I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful in my whole life.

Gift 2: A foam door sign that hooks on the knob. James also made this with Grandma, informing her that it needed to have my age as a part of the sign. Grandma asked him how old he thought I was. “Well…I don’t know for sure, but she’s really old.” Great.

Gift 3: Owen greeted me with hugs and snuggles, refusing to be set down for an hour or so after my arrival. Due to my 5AM wakeup that morning we ended up on the couch watching a Curious George together. I got up a couple of times and each time I returned Owen would look up at me, grin, and pat the couch next to him emphatically, “H’re Mahmmy. Sit h’re.”

Gift 4: Both boys, after hugs and happiness, seemed to let the exhaustion of the new routine and environment wash over them in relief and melted down for the rest of Monday, even as I was attempting to get some photos taken with our favorite PA photographer. Owen ended up doing OK, but was in a different outfit than planned because the jeans would NOT do. “All DONE Mahmmy! All DOOOONNNNE!!!!!” And James just never stopped crying. He ended up falling asleep at 6PM and slept for 13 hours straight.

So that was kind of a bust.

But the next morning we headed back to NY, where their preferred activity is to snuggle with me on the couch and read books. Roy rejoined us last night in time for supper, and our joy is complete.

Compare and contrast

James at 23 months: Conducts Firebird with rapt concentration as he hits the beats and sways dramatically to the music. Once it’s over he pauses, turns to me, and states unblinkingly, “Do aDAIN.”

Owen at 23 months: Takes the cushion off of the chair, turning it into his own personal trampoline, bouncing with a ridiculous smile on his face, left hand clutching his prized green ball, as Short Ride in a Fast Machine plays in the background. Once it’s over he keeps jumping, shouting, “Moe! MOE! I wan’ MOE!!!!”

James at 23 months: Tries putting his feet on the pedals of his trike once, then quickly gives up and makes his parents push him around for the next year.

Owen at 23 months: Tries putting his feet on the pedals of his trike once, and persists to the exclusion of any help. Pushes his parents’ hands away so he can keep practicing, unless he tips over and gets stuck under the wheels. Whenever he manages to get somewhere (usually when aimed downhill) he shouts “yaaaaayyyyy!!!!”

James at 23 months: Sits and listens to books for, literally, hours if you’d let him. Wants to read the original Curious George books and knows and says his letters and colors.

Owen at 23 months: Will “sit” for a book or two, but usually only if they involve pop-ups or animal sounds. Gets bored with any kind of real story book unless it’s less than two minutes long or Elephant and Piggie. If you show him letters he invariably responds “Eeeeee!!!!” and if you ask him what color it’s “Geeeeen!!!!” Always with exclamation points.

James at 23 months: Will give an obligatory hug at bedtime, but rarely initiates physical affection for humans. Needs a ginky, George, and Steven to go to sleep.

Owen at 23 months: Hugs. Hugs for Mommy, hugs for Daddy, hugs for ALL of the babies. Hugs to the greeters at church and the nursery workers. No wonder this kid gets sick more than his older brother. Requires nothing but his own two fingers and an earlobe to sleep.

Here’s a really horrible thing. I know I’ve read a couple of books between A Prayer for Owen Meany and Water for Elephants. But I can’t remember, and I apparently can’t look it up on my online library account. Sniff. If I can come up with one or more I’ll be sure to insert. Roy and I have been doing a lot of crosswords at night…but STILL. I know I’m missing a couple…

Book 57: A Prayer for Owen Meany. The longest read of 2016 so far. A curious tale about a modern-day Messiah veiled in humor, irony, and tragedy. I laughed at times and other times I kept on keeping on. Owen Meany is quite the literary character, I will say that. This is one of those books that I guess I’m glad I finished, but would probably be much more interesting as a book-club read, where there could be discussion and analysis following.

Book 58: Boy Erased: A memoir of a young man, raised in a Missionary Baptist home, who comes out to his family and is sent to “ex gay therapy.” I could probably write an entire blog about this book if I wanted to be controversial, but suffice it to say, he did not have a good experience and ended up choosing to embrace the homosexual lifestyle. Knowing this before I even turned the first page I assumed the critiques of the Christian community would be scathing, and they were. But even if you read past the obvious anger and mistrust of the author towards Christianity, it would appear that this young man was, indeed, abused, misled, and unloved by those who were claiming “healing through Christ.” Disturbing at a number of levels.

Book 59: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. The most delightful read of 2016 thus far. I passed it onto Roy immediately and highly recommend, particularly if you love historical fiction that involves letter-writing, British humor, and whimsy. (IE, all of the people who read this blog.)

P.S.

I've just started a new book comprised of written correspondence that always ends with a PS. So in the spirit of that...

In re-reading my last post I think I sound like a bit of a wimp. Reading, a nap, an early bedtime?! So for clarification: fourth day in a row without Roy. And what is Monday to the rest of the world is Saturday to me. I work Wednesday-Sunday. So I'm just reminding myself that it was OK to be tired. And not justifying it to any form of readership in the least...

Good night!

Fourth Day Without Daddy

7:15 AM: “Mahmmy! Mah-mmy!” It looks and feels like it’s gotta be 5:30. But no. Time to start another day! Two more days without Roy. Three down, two to go. You can do this! “Good morning Owen!” “Mahmmy!!!” Let’s go get James up!

James, curled up in a ball, “Hi Mommy. I’m a little wet. Guess I just need’a splash off in the tub. NO PENISES!”

A quick feel around his bed proves that “little wet” was a grave understatement. James, and his bed, are positively soaked through.

So much for the pep talk.

8:00 AM: I decided to make pancakes for the boys. They love them and it means I’ll have lots of leftovers for tomorrow. This recipe is the BOMB for letting me justify pancakes for the family. Out of a double batch James eats 4, Owen eats 3, and I have 2 with an egg. (Does anybody else make a fried egg and chop it all up/mix with their pancakes? Drizzle a little syrup and it’s SO good.

8:20AM: The boys, adequately fed, disappear. FOR AN HOUR. This is miraculous and amazing. I do the dishes and settle in on the couch with A Prayer for Owen Meany, my gigantic task of a read. I’m so close to finishing!

9:20AM: Is it possible that the boys are still upstairs and I am still on the couch reading? Still not finished the book, but maybe later today… Coffee makes its first appearance.

9:30AM: I start thinking about the kitchen. This happens when I have had coffee and am left to my own devices for too long. I realize I have every ingredient on hand to make the butternut squash gratin from a DNI last fall. I can make it now and just pop it in the oven 20 minutes before suppertime. Heck yes.

9:45AM: Owen finds his way into the kitchen, sees that I’m hard at work, and immediately drags in a chair so he can “help”. (Owen helping is really just Owen dropping dishes into the sink or Owen trying to grab sharp knives.) I attempt to keep him safely busy with menial tasks, but ultimately have to provide some boundaries. And then re-provide. And RE-provide. And then when I pick him up off the chair because he’s too content to ignore me he shouts “NO!” and sinks his sharp little fangs into my pants. Monday Corner #1.

10:15AM: James is bored and annoying Owen, who is bored and annoying James. I am wrapping up my casserole and have promised outside time once I’m done. Just before I sprinkle the gratin with homemade shallot crumbs I hear a yelp and cries. Owen has bitten James on the arm hard enough that skin is gone and I can see each individual tooth mark. Monday Corner #2.

10:20AM: Owen tells James that he’s sorry. I encourage James to respond, “it’s OK Owen.” James looks at me and whispers, “But it’s NOT OK.” Which is completely correct.

10:30AM: Shoes are on, contacts are in, dump trucks are located. We head outside. It was damp this morning and I warn James that he may not want to bring his menagerie of plush friends outside unless he is fine with them getting a little wet. He ignores me and heads outside. 3 minutes later he is shrieking and wailing because the butt of Jack the stuffed dog got wet. Owen is content to push his dump truck around. I convince James that his dog will live, metaphorically speaking, and, no, I’m not packing us all up to go put him in the dryer. He can wait until we are ready to come inside.

11:00AM: The boys have settled down. I FINISH OWEN MEANY! I am so excited that I tell James this happy news. I show him the 627 dense pages of small font that I persisted in completing. “Now I can finally take this book back to the library James!” He looks at me incredulously, puzzled. “So you’re only going to read it ONE TIME???”

James, who rereads everything until it is completely committed to memory, is not impressed.

11:45AM: We head inside for lunch. I make PB&J for the boys (SB&J for Owen) and warm up curried chicken and apple soup for me. Attempting to replicate the amazing Wegmans soup—this is not as bright or sweet, but it is very good just the same.

12:10PM: We sit down to lunch. James is ravenous, despite eating half a batch of pancakes this morning. Owen eats his peas and smashes the bread.

12:35PM Owen is making his pooping face at the table, but it turns out he is just listening uber-intently to “Let It Go” from his kitchen chair. (Thanks to niece Abby for introducing him. Idina, you’ve captured another soul.) Still, it’s nice to listen to something other than “Life Is A Highway”.

James is complaining about not wanting to go alone to check on the state of his dumb DAMP dog “Jack” (Thanks to niece Abby for introducing him.) in the dryer. I’ve assured him I’ll go as soon as the washer is done, but "that’s not soon enough!"

I’m pretty sure that somewhere between 12:35-1PM Owen ended up in the corner again. At least once.

1PM: Owen goes behind bars down for a nap. James and I do kindergarten. He has learned to love school and I love it too, most of the time. But my patience is thinned from exhaustion and his focus has been thinned by the biting. We agree to some space at 1:30 and he retreats to his bedroom with an armload of books to memorize.

1:45PM: I fall asleep.

2:45PM: Owen is awake. James is too, obviously. I get awake so I can get them up and put on their shoes to rescue the two kids we pick up from school on Monday afternoons.

3:15-4:15PM: Teach lessons while Elmo babysits the kids. I feel badly about this, but my options are few.

4:15PM: Go back outside until dinner time. We go to the playground, which is overrun with YMCA after-school kids. They are loud and busy. James the kindergartener hates it. Owen the not-quite 2 year old loves it, until a 4^th grade girl screams at him for touching a small bouquet of flowers she left on a park bench. She really let him have it, apparently doing a better job of teaching him a lesson than anything I’ve used to keep him from biting. Owen buries his head in my shoulder, sobbing, as she berates him repeatedly for “should have knowing better.” I, to my credit, refrain from chewing the 4^th grader’s head off and feeding it to crocodiles.

5PM: James has had enough extroverting for the week and we head home for supper. Owen happily eats as much squash gratin as I do and James pukes it up twice onto his plate. I suppose that’s what you call a mixed bag.

6PM: Our Jesus Storybook Bible is about Jonah and the Big Fish. This leads to a LOT of questions about large-fish anatomy. It’s been a long time since that I dissected that sturgeon in biology. I wasn’t much help, but you know what was? You’re right: YOUTUBE. I just had to make sure we didn’t end up watching graphic shark-attack footage. (Easier said than done, you bloodthirsty culture!) Shark videos led to watching the second half of The Jungle Book, which is a great movie. Tigers, elephants, and man cubs, oh my!

7:30PM: BEDTIME! James and I make a pact for the following day: he will be a better listener and I will be more patient. We shake like real men to seal the deal.

8PM: I do the dishes, mock-straighten the livingroom, and collapse into bed. Day one of Daddy’s trip gone, one more to go.

I have lots of books to update on the blog, but I am too tired to type them out. Like I’ve been too tired to type up the October DNI. Let’s get Roy home and I’ll see what I can do about getting everything up to date.

A Rant and Photos

Warning: what you are about to read is political in nature. But if you endure and hang with me you will be rewarded with photos of adorable kids doing brilliant things.

Much of the political fiasco of the past 12 months has rolled off my back. I keep my head down and the television off. 99% of what I see on Facebook is steeped in misinformed ignorance. I haven’t the patience to wade through it or say anything publicly for the inevitable tidal wave of backlash. Let’s be honest: Facebook is just a public forum to rant. It doesn’t change anyone’s mind.

But even with my eyes aimed at the ground I’ve been unable to completely avoid the muck and mire presidential candidates have spewed forth. And, seemingly, none of it has any staying power. Apparently our country has gotten to the point where nothing matters anymore. (This is why you have no reason to post anything political on Facebook.) But the past two days…I’ve been stewing. The words I’ve heard this weekend cause me new levels of great concern.

It’s not so much over Mr. Trump’s misogynistic, perverted comments. Anybody with 2 cents worth of anything knows he’s an egotistical narcissist. It baffles me that anybody could be convinced that he had their best interests at heart. (I’m not sure he has one.) No, what concerns me is this…

Mr. Trump’s vile, criminal statements demand swift response from those who would call themselves followers of Jesus Christ. Let me be clear. It makes my blood boil to see so many evangelical leaders in this country completely silent or, unbelievably, defending Mr. Trump at any level. Or, worse, to immediately trot out something that sullies his opponent in a pathetic attempt to equalize/justify his reprehensible behaviors.

Those who would cry out on behalf of the unborn or the institution of marriage have fallen silent when it comes to defending the cause of WOMEN. Mr. Trump has made me more of a feminist through his words and actions in the past week than any liberal in my lifetime. And while I refuse to enter into any form of petty debate on Facebook, I fear that if I remain silent entirely I fall into the same category as those I denounce in the preceding paragraph.

I grew up in the evangelical church. I am, essentially, a product of Focus on the Family. Largely, that was a good thing. I am still working out my faith as an adult, of course, but I am so thankful for the values and consistency an evangelical upbringing gave me. And I understand that not every leader in the evangelical church is supporting Mr. Trump. But even one is too many, and it’s far, far more than one. Those who defend this politician abandon me and thousands of other women who trusted in them and were discipled through their books, magazines, radio programs, blogs, and conferences.

I will not be voting for Donald Trump and I cannot fathom a logical scenario in which you could convince me otherwise. I don’t know WHO I will vote for at this moment actually (but I will be voting, and so should you!). But the greater hurt and damage to me are the actions of those who have told me that they will love their neighbors as themselves, will seek first the kingdom of God, will pick up their crosses, will defend the cause of the poor and widowed, will do unto others, will honor their wives, and will run with endurance the race set before them. Whose race are you really running and who, exactly, are you defending?

A dear friend reminded me today, letting her actions speak louder than her words, that prayer is our most powerful tool. So tonight I seek to lift up those who offend and anger me, as well as my country. There is some peace in knowing that our prayers are more effective than our single vote!

And with that, I leave you with adorable pictures of my dear sons, whose laughter and joy bring me hope in the midst of aforementioned blood boilage. :)

James is doing a lot better at gymnastics. But I got a real kick out of watching him distractedly wander out of line and into this hidey hole. And then I laughed out loud as Coach Paul dragged him out by his ankles.

This kid is incredibly handsome. And almost two!

He also had his first "PB&J" thanks to sunflower butter from Aldi. It's our new favorite.

This incredibly handsome kid is READING. Oliver Pig, Dr. Seuss, the Berenstein Bears, and Curious George stand no match for the incredibly-focused Mighty James.

This is Mighty James' superhero outfit, btw. Or at least, that's what he told me this morning. (The boots are on the wrong feet.)

We've had a generous allotment of Elmo and George this week, thanks to an encore appearance of Hand, Foot, and Mouth for Sir Owen.

While James tolerates gymnastics, Owen is positively ACHING to get on the floor. (Look, there's even a dog at the gym!)

Saw this at a used book store today. Imma just leave it here...

...cause this has been my thought life the past two days.

Me Ring

As you know, I live with three males. They are wonderful and delightful and rather messy. The oldest one not so much, but the younger two more than make up for him with their, ahem, vitality. James’ floor is covered in books right now, his bed pushed haphazardly away from the wall so he can hide his little-boy-treasures in the crack. His shirts are half-sucked into his shorts from potty trips. More often than not there’s a sprig of hair poking out at an odd angle, and he baptizes the bathroom each time he’s in the tub with his “swimming practice”.

Owen is the messiest human eater I have ever known. I’m pretty sure his total disregard for where his food ends up is why we had a small mouse problem a month ago. Every time we’re traveling together you hear random “clunks” and if you’re lucky, will see one of his shoes flying by in the rearview mirror. The socks follow shortly thereafter. And nothing makes Owen happier than a piece of ice from the freezer, which he sucks on delightedly as he trots around the downstairs, leaving frigid drips to bless sock-footed grownups.

I, on the other hand, crave symmetry and beauty. I smile when my Rubbermaid containers are organized in their cabinet. (And thankful that those containers are squares and not circles, wasting less space.) I smile when I can slice a fresh loaf of bread into 16 equal slices. I smile when the dishwasher fills with the perfect number of plates, bowls, and glasses, with just enough room for a few extra serving spoons and perhaps a sippy cup or two. It’s just so stinkin’ satisfying!

So on the mornings, like this one, when I’m driving to a thing and the boys are in the backseat wearing what they wore yesterday and insisting on listening to “Life Is a Highway” on infinity repeat, things do not feel beautiful. I glance in the rearview mirror (“clunk”) and notice my hair is askew. When did I last wash my hair anyway? The house was left in the hastened clutter of departure and there’s company coming. Insert the enormous SIGH right here.

I look down at the steering wheel and catch a glint off my left hand. I see symmetry and beauty resting upon my ring finger. Without even meaning to a myriad of memories pushes Rascal Flatts to the background…

Wearing my beautiful ring, newly engaged, in Hale Auditorium for the first time, watching it glisten under the stage lights. Wow! I can’t believe I am wearing diamonds!

Seeing the ring for the first time, held out to me by a terrified young man on both knees, awaiting my response to a question. Oh! It’s a ring! It’s not exactly what I described to him, but it’s beautiful! Wait, I have to give him an answer—ahhh! This is real!

Despite my shyness, having to show the ring to everybody on campus, because that’s what you do at a small Christian college. When one person exclaimed, “That’s such a YOU ring! It’s exactly what I would think you would wear!” I thought, “Really? I’m not sure what a Me Ring is, and I’m Me!”

Thankful in the later months of pregnancy to have both my engagement ring and wedding band still fit. Maybe I won’t be too huge after this kid is born…

Knowing how hard my boyfriend worked to buy me diamonds. Remembering the extra late-night shifts in the graduate school library, the skipped meals and the meals-that-weren’t-meals to save his precious pennies. The pounds that disappeared from his frame, which he absolutely needed for his strenuous bike commute and trumpet playing.

Seeing the pride in his face and love in his eyes as he told me that special night, “I knew that I wanted princess-cut diamonds and I knew that I wanted more than one. Because you are royalty and you deserve diamonds.”

Getting all teary-eyed right now…

On days when beauty and balance are far away, all I need to do is glance at my left hand. The trifecta of diamonds (Trifecta means “perfect group of three”—love this!) on a golden circle make me instantly glamorous. The love and sacrifice that they represent is a continual promise of commitment and encouragement. It’s only become more Me as I’ve worn it these past almost-10 years. 

 

Facebook did exist when Roy and I got engaged (hah! I love that I even have to say that.) but I tend to avoid posting cliché pictures: bump photos, engagement pictures, selfies, etc. I’m not shy about sharing the cuteness of my children, but I justify that by reminding myself that I’m doing it for my non-local family. (Because I have 540 out-of-state family members…) ;)

But I’m proud of this ring and I’m proud of all it represents. So here it is blog, a little scratched, a little clouded from scrubbing dishes and little boys’ hair, and positively stunning.

Food and book update

Moms who stay at home with their babies all day probably don't have time to make food that looks this this. But it's exactly the kind of thing they want to do--creativity please!

Vegetable tian. Very French, very rustic, very time-intensive. It was really nice to put something pretty on the table last night.

Again, channeling the "lairs" of Mary Barry. And Donkey from Shrek. Zucchini, yellow squash, red onion, red potatoes, tomato. Dressed with olive oil, S&P, thyme, garlic.

I was looking through my Kindle and realized there was a book I finished a month ago that got skipped somehow in my blog. So, here's the updated list:

Book 55: Rosemary: The Hidden Kennedy. Did you know that JFK had a developmentally challenged sister? Neither did I. And apparently neither did most of the world. Did you know that her father subjected her to a lobotomy in her early 20s, rendering her incapable of most basic functions? Neither did I. Her story is tragic, and while the author tried to shine a positive light on all the Kennedy and Shriver families have done for accommodating and educating individuals with special needs since then, I was boiling over with rage at her father, who went behind his wife's back to carry out the procedure and then institutionalized Rosemary.

Book 56: Water for Elephants. This book came recommended from several friends. As one who finds circuses rather dark and creepy, this book did little to dispel those notions. It was bawdy and literally full of "rolls in the hay."

I've also read several cookbooks recently, but I've decided not to count those in my literary listing for 2016. If anyone happens to be curious to know what I think about them I'll be happy to review them at some point...

Date Night In: Eat with Your Hands

Last night we had a DNI first: the boys were in bed and the lights were OUT by 7:30. Additionally, the food was ready to eat at 7:40. We were done our dinner by 8:15. 8:15 is typically about the time we’re staring hungrily at a hot baking pan saying, “Well, if we let this chicken cool for only ten minutes instead of the recommended thirty we could be eating in…ten minutes. OK, let’s do that.”

Our rhythm in the kitchen has become much more polished in the last year. We almost don’t even need to say anymore who’s taking care of which part. Roy makes the salad, I finish the entrée and make sure the dessert will be cooled/warmed up by the time we are ready for it. We collaborate on drinks and setting the table. Whomever has a spare minute snaps a few photos for posterity. And then we eat.

We started with an ice (“Ahhhhssss! I wan’ ahhhssss!” says Owen on an hourly basis.) cold glass of homemade cream soda. Roy and I aren’t soda drinkers, but there was something much more elegant about making our own vanilla syrup and watching the cream drip through the soda water and ice cubes than popping the top on a can. It was very refreshing, and I appreciated the smaller serving of a sugary drink. Who came up with the brilliant notion that a soda needs to be 12 oz anyway? 6 was plenty for us.

Roy and I stood in front of the greens at Wegmans yesterday morning staring at a tiny oblong orb of white, both wanting to act like we knew what endive was, but both inwardly going, “is that right??” It was the only endive in the store, so we went for it. Have you ever had it? You cut off the bottom root part and it unfolds into perfect, stiff little cups of green. So much easier to hold than lettuce leaves or anybody else’s idea of “nature’s taco shells.” I’ve tried to wrap stuff up in lettuce leaves before…let’s be real guys—it’s just a big mess.

This was not messy once assembled! Each leaf held toasted walnuts, grapes, apples, blue cheese, olive oil, and salt. We splurged for some stinky, specialty blue cheese and it was creamy loveliness. I think we both anticipated not actually “eating with our hands” as the date title implies, but we really did with this, most successfully!

We were excited for the tart. The ricotta cheese came out like a Dairy Queen blizzard…you could hold the spoon upside down and the cheese wasn’t going anywhere. Bravo Roy! I mixed it with parmesan, s&p, garlic, nutmeg, thyme, and parmesan. This went into a perfectly-baked crust and was topped with Roy’s sautéed leeks and bacon. Guys, this was good. It looked…dare I say, better than the cookbook photo? And it was all salty and savory and crispy and creamy. Really really good. If you happen to live on Union Street I may be making another one and bringing it to you tomorrow night for supper.

We both had seconds of the tart. I was really proud of us on this dish, because I knew we nailed it. It was baked perfectly and the textures and tastes were complex. It’s hard to know with fancy cooking if you are actually capturing the essence of what the author intended. We both knew we “got it” last night, and that was a nice feeling indeed.

Maybe one of the reasons last night’s food seemed to go so well was that there was a larger component of baking than usual. I baked the crust for the tart, I baked the actual tart, and I baked the brownies. When I bake I don’t have to re-read the recipe ten times. (Maybe only two or three…) I know what’s coming next faster. I understand the science of mixing ingredients in certain orders and at certain temperatures. It’s more of a dance and less of a “watch and mimic frantically” type of situation.

So we ate the brownies. As you can see, I honored Owen and kept a corner peanut-frosting-free. Poor kid. He would have really enjoyed that frosting.

These were incredibly rich and fudge-like. Browned butter was an excellent idea. The frosting was smooth and--are you allowed to say this for peanut butter frosting—light. It didn’t overpower what was underneath, and it wasn’t gritty or cloying. Our flake salt makes the top a little extra-fancy.

We dumped our dishes into the sink and settled into the couch to watch some John Oliver. As he wrapped up a segment on lead poisoning, Elmo and Rosita from Sesame Street joined him to sing about increased federal funding for lead paint eradication. Roy looked at me and said, “Can you believe we are watching Elmo in the middle of our date night?” Irony at its finest. The comfort of good food lingered on our tongues and in our tummies. The knowledge that we cooked yet another complex meal with strong teamwork and an unspoken trust for each other made it all the better. Happy one year anniversary Date Night In. We’ve got another year to go and we’re happy to have many more chances to fail and succeed together in the kitchen.

September DNI Preparations

It’s our one year anniversary of Date Night In! It’s also my mommy’s birthday today. The boys said they wanted to drive to Pennsylvania this morning to celebrate with you Mom. We can’t really do that, so we will eat delicious food tonight in your honor instead.

Menu

·         Homemade Cream Soda

·         Salad of Apples, Grapes, and Blue Cheese on Endive

·         Bacon and Leek Tart with Ricotta Custard

·         Bittersweet Brownies with Salted Peanut Butter Frosting

Last night Roy and I prepped. I made vanilla syrup, a tart shell, and the brownies. Roy made…are you ready for this…CHEESE.

http://harmonious-smith.blogspot.com/2012/12/cheesemaking-or-how-to-waste-gallon-of.html

Just read it. You need to understand this triumph. When we saw that there was an option of making homemade ricotta for the tart I immediately said, “You’re doing that.” Ashley’s recipes have proven pretty foolproof and I hoped it would assuage the disappointment of four years ago. Also, Roy successfully made crème fraiche last week and we’ve enjoyed it on oatmeal in the mornings. So…baby steps. Crème fraiche to ricotta to…how many more steps can we take before we legit need a cave?

Baking confession time: I’ve never made homemade brownies. I happen to think that Aldi makes the best fudge brownie mix in the world and brownies are my "I didn’t have any time to bake dessert for last-minute company." If you’ve eaten those brownies at my house now you know the honest truth, but you have to be honest too—they’re not bad right?

Unless you have Aunt Martha’s brownies. Then you know what you’re missing…

So here are some homemade brownies tonight. And we’re going to make salted peanut butter frosting for them, which means two things. 1: chocolate and peanut butter=YES. 2: Owen can’t have any unless I save him a frosting-free corner. Hmm. We will definitely have lots of leftovers so maybe I’ll save him a space. He’ll want to eat these brownies. “Moe Mommy! Moe moe! I wan’ moe!”

The salad seems pretty simple for an Ashley salad. If we had done this DNI first we probably would have considered it elegant and complicated, but we’ve learned a good deal in the last year about food. This one looks positively rustic in comparison. But I will always, always take blue cheese and walnuts in a salad.

It’s shaping up to be a relatively quiet day. We hope to run to Weggies to pick up a few last-minute items, lay low at home, and take James to gymnastics this afternoon if he’s feeling OK. (He threw up twice last night but so far seems recovered this morning.)

Cheese-making update and full summary tomorrow friends. Happy, happy Tuesday!

Book 53/50: The Reach of a Chef. I had read Michael Ruhlman’s first two books on cheffing last year and stalled on this one first go-around. This time I finished and enjoyed it thoroughly. Bucket list: to eat at the French Laundry and a Bouchon Bakery.

Book 54/50: Love Warrior. A new book by Glennon Doyle Melton. As you know, I read her first book earlier this year and it had a profound impact on me. Love Warrior is a memoir about her marriage. I give this woman credit for being brutally honest and for seeking tirelessly to figure out who she is. (She comes from a long history of eating disorders, alcoholism, and drug abuse, so getting under all of that is truly a lifelong struggle.) That being said, this book annoyed me. Maybe I’ll write an entire post on it at some point, but I found it self-centered and reckless. I hurt for her husband, who by no means is spotless in the story, but who has no say in the book and is exploited in his wife’s raw writing. And her innocent children have virtually no voice at all. Anyway…maybe more to come on this one. Right now I need space.

On a quiet Tuesday

I sat in the passenger seat of our van on a quiet, sunny Tuesday afternoon. Tuesdays were lesson days and I, as a homeschooler, was studying privately with professors at a local college. My brothers were in the backseat, ready for me to be dropped off so they could go to the library with Mom and use their Arbys coupons for roast beef sandwiches. (5 for $5!) It was already lunchtime, so I would be lucky if they saved one for me.

We drove up the familiar winding road, past the academic buildings on campus as Mom slowed at the music building. I opened my door and hadn’t even fully stepped out before my flute teacher came hurrying outside.

“What are you doing here??” she said.

Mom replied, “Well…it’s Tuesday. Is the college on a break I didn’t know about?”

I’ll never forget her deadly serious, quiet response: “No, I mean what are you doing here? Don’t you know? I can’t believe you haven’t heard. America is under attack.”

In retrospect, it had been an extraordinarily quiet Tuesday morning. My mom often had her little black and white, kitchen counter TV tuned into the Today Show or an early morning talk show. And we almost always had talk radio on in the car on the way to the college. I don’t know why those things didn’t occur on the morning of September 11, 2001, but Dr. Linda Kirkpatrick, in addition to being an influential teacher, will forever be burned onto my memory for being the one on that day.

“Haven’t you heard from your husband? The Pentagon was attacked and all of the local schools are closing. He should be on his way home now. You need to go home and be together as a family.”

Of course he was. With my father working in northern Maryland, he was teaching kids whose parents worked for the government and for Dulles and BWI. All of the sudden, whatever hazy ideas I had was formulating about my country being attacked sharpened—this was impacting my father. This was real.

After a hasty farewell and exit, my mom turned on the radio. I tell Roy library fines were practically a sin growing up, and I have no greater evidence than the fact that we then drove, on 9/11, to the library to drop books off before going home. The radio newscasters filled us in on the horrors of the morning.

I remember sitting in the car as Mom took the books inside. As the horrible details emerged--likely thousands of lives lost, enormous buildings destroyed, and not even knowing if the attacks were over--I crouched down on the floor in front of my passenger seat.

“What’s wrong?” one of my younger brothers asked.

“There’s going to be a war,” was all I could manage to say. I didn’t know everything, I didn’t know much of anything, but I knew this was significant in a way I hadn’t experienced.

And so it was. There was a prayer vigil that night at church, another first. There were thousands of additional flags that were hung in windows and on poles in my town. I don’t remember a whole lot of the aftermath, but my journal entries indicate a sense of wide-eyed, taking it all in-ness. I was 16 years old.

Today

Today was just me and Roy. Today was sleeping in and meandering lazily downstairs, making coffee and sipping it in silence, enjoying smoothies without fending off greedy little boys (albeit cute ones).

Today was a 4 mile run along the Erie Canal in perfect, 68 degree weather. It was about running all the way to the world’s biggest Wegmans, wandering aimlessly through the aisles, sampling fine, free cheese and examining kitchen gadgetry.

Today was a 4 mile run back along the Erie Canal in perfect, 69 degree weather, ending at the Village Bakery.

Today was a frangipane pastry, a Caroline breakfast sandwich, and a toast-tasting outdoors in the 70 degree shade.

Today was cold brew coffee from Starbucks and driving back in peaceful silence, content with all that had been accomplished.

Tonight was picking up the boys from their grandparents' house and promptly being thrown up on.

#backtoreality

On stubbornness and kissing

It's no secret that Owen is an affectionate creature. From the get-go he's preferred snuggles and cuddles, especially with mama. Of course, this isn’t a particularly difficult sacrifice to make on my part. James, while occasionally inclined to initiate a hug, largely keeps to himself and views physical affection as a "have to" rather than "get to."

Owen is also jealous of others hugging Mama. If I'm reading James a story on the couch he'll run over at top speed, dive-bombing into the middle of our book. He then wiggles around until he's wedged in between us. If Roy and I are hugging (or “worse”) in the kitchen it is never more than a few seconds before a little blonde head is head-butting at our knees, desperate to cut in. He used to want to join in the hug, but now just shoves Roy away.

I must admit, if they're the right men, it's great to be fought over. 

Sunday night we had a food battle. Owen, turns out, can be as stubborn as James when it comes to eating certain vegetables. All we asked for was one bite of yellow squash. 90 minutes later it was bedtime and it was still sitting in front of him. Roy loaded him up and took him to brush teeth and put him to bed. I heard, for the first time all evening, real trauma in his voice as he realized Mama wasn't going to be the one to read him his story and snuggle him to bed. 

"Mama!!! Ma-MAAAAA!!!" 

I listened as Roy brushed his teeth and changed his diaper, then figured I might would say good night. Owen literally leaped out of Roy's arms into mine and held me tight. We went to the rocking chair and read, a bit half-heartedly for my part, his current favorite. And then we said prayers. I was still semi-frustrated at his lack of cooperation at supper, but he was as happy as could be.

I turned him around and said "ok, hugs and kisses."

He planted a big wet one square on my lips. This is not normal behavior. My surprise must have registered. He looked at me for a sec, got a big mischievous grin on his face, then angled his head, reached for my face, and gave me a full-on, foot-popping KISS, just like Daddy does.

I'm sure this is what he was envisioning.

He was immensely proud of himself.

It's so hard to stay upset at that kid.

Book 51/50: The Mannings: The Fall and Rise of a Football Family. A brand new book out by Lars Anderson about Archie, Peyton, and Eli. It should be noted that this book really doesn’t touch much on any “falls.” It’s painted in extremely bright, glowing colors about the relationships of the Mannings with each other, and with football. I respect the Mannings a lot, and maybe all that glow is true, but it felt a bit saccharine to me after a while.

Book 52/50: Knives at Dawn: America’s Quest for Culinary Glory at the Legendary Bocuse d’Or Competition. This was a quick, entertaining read exploring the USA’s journey in 2008-2009 to select, train, and compete a duo (one chef, one commis) at one of the biggest international cooking competitions. Held biannually, the Bocuse d’Or is a grueling 5 hour cooking marathon, in front of thousands of people and the best chefs in the world. Even if you aren’t into cooking, this read like an athlete’s mission for Olympic gold. Loved it.

Date Night In: By the Fire

Yesterday was our anniversary and we celebrated by Roy working from 9-11:30 and me from 2-9:30. It was really special.

Anniversary Date Night In was held on Wednesday and it actually was really special.

In the first realm of specialness, the pretzel buns. Here’s what the book says they should look like.

And here’s what they actually looked like.

#uglyassin

(That’s “ugly as sin”, not…whatever alternative translation you want to come up with.)

I’ve made pretzels before and even if they come out of their baking soda bath a little lumpy looking they poof up nicely in the oven. Not so this time. Even Roy couldn’t suppress a laugh when he saw the finished product. We counted on their bite being better than their bark.

I’m afraid I didn’t spend much of Wednesday focusing solely on my children and cherishing every second of their little lives. It was a clock-watching day. How many more hours until bedtime? I was hungry for good food and good time with Roy. He took the boys up at 7:15PM and I immediately started sautéing shallots and melting cheese for our non-fire-pit fontina dip. I cut up one of the #uglyassin pretzel rolls to dip in this Italian fondue. And the instant Roy reemerged from stories and prayers it was READY.

It looked pretty ugly. Not nice to photograph. Should have presented in the skillet or a dipping bowl or something. I apologize for the ugliness. (At least I tore up the roll as to mask its horrific appearance.)

Don't say I didn't warn you.

As was the theme of the menu, it tasted better than it looked. It tasted great. And, while sometimes eating cheese straight up doesn’t agree with my stomach, this wasn’t a problem. I'll be making more for lunch.

The timer beeped and Roy pulled out the foil-wrapped packet of potatoes, garlic, oil, salt and pepper. He tossed them lightly in sour cream and dill while I cooked two sausages over our non-fire-pit stovetop. They were then tucked into pretzel rolls, slathered in mustard cream cheese, and covered in Roy’s pickled peppers.

That’s the way to eat a hot dog my friends.

The potato salad was warm and dilly and we both commented on how nice it was to eat meat, bread, and potatoes for supper. Most certainly not our normal fare but what an excellent, satisfying treat!

For dessert I pulled out the s’mores terrine that had chilled in the fridge. We sliced off respectable hunks and enjoyed the rich chocolate dotted with graham cracker chunks and chewy marshmallows. It was like s’more fudge. Ashley recommends cutting a slice and using it as the chocolate in an actual s’more. A s’more within a s’more if you will. We have ample leftovers to try this. I’ll let you know if we do.

I had, yet again, recurring dreams of guzzling glass after glass of water that night. We didn’t add nearly as much salt into these dishes as some other DNIs, but things like the sausages came pre-loaded.

At this point in my summaries I try to include a quote from Ashley’s opening entry presenting each DNI. This one was all about how she and her husband built a fire pit together and how their strengths complemented each other in its construction. The last time Roy and I had a bonfire we didn’t put it out all the way and woke up the next morning to discover the cover for our little pit was burned into a melty, ruined mess. (And melty, unlike the fontina dip, is not good in this instance.) So how about if we skip the Ashley quote this month?

My parents learned from an early age that, with me, anticipation is most of the fun. Surprise birthday parties, while enjoyable in theory, rob you of looking forward to the birthday party. I think one of the reasons this summer was so incredible was because of how hard I looked forward to it. Date Night In has become something I am excited about for days and weeks ahead of time.

Roy, happy anniversary. More than birthday parties, summer, and date nights--being with you means I always have something to look forward to.

August Date Night In: Preparations

Menu

·         Fire-Pit Fontina with Tomatoes, Rosemary, and Lemon

·         German Pretzel Sandwiches

·         Smoky Potato Salad with Sour Cream and Dill

·         S’mores Terrine with Smoked Salt

New ingredients (to me):

·         Fontina cheese

·         Liquid smoke

We decided, in the spirit of post-vacation, snap-back-to-reality, frugality to save our Date Night In this month for our anniversary. That way we’d be combining two special occasions. I’m fine with it, especially since September is just around the corner and we won’t have to wait very long to do this again!

Most of the food is supposed to be done over a fire. I don’t think we’re going to do that. We’d both like to smell nice for our anniversary dinner, I tend to be a mosquito chew toy by campfires, and we don’t have the right gear to get a predictable outcome on the cooks of various dishes. So we probably won’t have a very smoky potato salad and our s’mores have unsmoked flake salt dusted on them instead. We expect it will all still taste just fine.

Last night we pickled peppers (Roy), prepped pretzel dough for a slow rise overnight (me), made mustard-whipped cream cheese (Roy), and made s’mores terrine (me). Chocolate lovers unite. There’s 12 ounces of high quality dark chocolate in our terrine. Smiles all around.

Tonight shouldn’t be too complicated, she said hopefully. We will make the potato salad, which is supposed to be served warm (I’m not sure how I feel about this, but the ingredients look amazing), and cook the fontina. I’ll bake pretzel rolls in a couple of hours. (Doing anything pretzelly takes me back to my childhood and family pretzel nights at the Davis house. Mom would make the dough and divide it into handfuls ready to be rolled out. We would do our best to make long, even snakes of dough. One of the kids would invariably struggle with this. Then the old twist-and-flick to create pretzels. Wingardium leviosa! A quick blitz in a baking soda bath and into the oven. Mustard or cinnamon sugar to finish it off. Oh man.)

Right now it’s off to a fresh cup of coffee and reading/nap (depending on the quality of the coffee). Library trip this morning means there’s much to flip through!