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March 31, 2006
Happy chartreuse puffs have appeared among the evergreens here. Oaks and mesquite are leafing out in between cedars. They look hopeful now, but won't take long to mature. The little, tender green leaves shine in the sun, denying that they are part of the dense, gnarly, scrubby chaparral.
I take ginger steps along the riparian trail behind the gym. After yoga, it's good to be outside breathing fresh air, untainted by foot odor and old sweat. The cedar I walk on cuts the grime like a blade, cleansing me. It reminds me of the barn in the morning, fresh shavings cascading out of my wheelbarrow and onto the floor of the stall. In a split second I dodge after noticing a hanging inchworm. My feet reach high over little mounds where squirrels have dug into the mulch, I plod faster. Five shiny, tall brown mushrooms have erupted overnight. The basidiocarps are covered in a cheesy white film, like little newborn babies. I dodge another caterpillar. The creek is flowing steady, after a good rain. Wrens are on alert, surely happy with all the worms. One darts across the path just before me, and disappears into the shadows.
When I have finished my stretching routine on the mat, upstairs in the gym, I look down on my white shirt to notice an aberration: a bright green inchworm with a shiny black head is trying to navigate across my belly. Without thinking, I take my shirt and slingshot it across the room, towards the Cybex machines. Old habits die hard; at least I didn't squash it.
It's midnight. I nearly fell asleep at nine but Damon arrived at the bedside with a Coke float. It was delicious, like the ones we sipped in the middle of summer twenty-odd years ago. I remember laughing, in between foamy sips, while watching John MacEnroe chew out the referee during Wimbledon against Jimmy Connors. I was glad for Wimbledon, during siesta time in Beaumont, when the sun shone too hot at midafternoon to hunt for lizards or ride bikes.
A sure sign of the season, a few loony White Wing doves are cooing outside the window. At midnight.
Posted by Steph at 12:28 PM | Comments (3)
March 30, 2006
Breakfast at Stephanie's
Posted by Steph at 06:29 AM | Comments (2)
March 28, 2006
The Litter on the Lawn
Posted by Steph at 05:09 AM | Comments (6)
March 25, 2006
The Butt of My Brain
We meet our friends every afternoon to play at a playground. It's a standing date: around 4pm every day. By that time, at least one of the toddlers has taken a nap, and the big boys have built up considerable steam. They scamper, laugh, and shout potty talk like nobody's business. Polly and I stand, exasperated, torn between roles of shadowing the little ones as they teeter on the edge of tall perches and jumping into the storm to interrupt the trashy talk. We wonder why they can't just use other words, when quiet time at home consists of lengthy discourse on subatomic particles and static electricity. Why Ford can't make any word substitutions when he's so clever to point out that "I don't like to snuggle in the bed like a pack of batteries." Instead, we hear endless "BUTT-HEAD!" and "BOOTY BUTT-HEAD!" and "PENIS HEAD!" in the drone of play combat that orbits around the playscape following a stampede of little feet.
To make matters worse, Chas loves to follow them around the playground, bouncing and roaring, tumbling every now and then as he tries to keep up, but occasionally shouting, "BUTT!!!!" He bends forth with a red face to proclaim the profanity as loudly as possible. It's hard enough trying to get him to say normal words, like "sock" and "help" and "horse," but I get so irate when I catch Ford leaning into Chas' face, to teach him to properly pronounce "BUTT." At the playground, when people hear "BUTT-HEAD" coming from Chas, they turn to me, surprised and amused. At these times, my eyes try rolling back into the nether region of my skull, to a place where fading dreams linger: where my house would always be tidy, where I'd ride horses while the kids napped, and where my boys would grow up perfect.
Posted by Steph at 08:56 PM | Comments (5)
March 24, 2006
DFW Intl. Airport
Into the relentless sunny wind, Chas ran towards the distant airplane as it lifted off the tarmac. "DET! DET!" he shouted, pointing, and Ford translated it for me: JET, JET! HE reached the end of the berm and stopped still, apprehensive, as the jet loomed closer. But the roaring became intense, and Chas turned round and trotted back to me, quietly frowning to the ground, pink cheeks bouncing. I scooped him up and together we tracked the gleaming silver jet as it thundered over us.
Ford is into jet turbine engines. He likes to describe their operation, and tell stories involving turbines. He will pick up a gall off the curb and tell me, "Mom, do you know why this gall is so fast? It's because it's a jet TURBINE-powered gall that shoots through the sky and into your eyeball!" or "I'm so fast because I have two jet turbine engines, spinning like huge atoms, on my sides." He has been into jet turbines for while, but I can't remember what set it off, this fiery interest. These days, he's all about atoms, particles, molecules, jet turbines, and electromagnetic forces. I'm not cut out for this.
Posted by Steph at 05:48 AM | Comments (2)
March 23, 2006
SPT: time :week 3
We left the house on Sunday at noon.
The fog loafed through the canyon without much hurry,
and in our own haste I thought breathlessly about 101,
driving into town just before the tunnel above sausalito,
before hitting the traffic awaiting the Golden Gate bridge,
around 5 o'clock.
I was sad for a while after that, missing the eucalyptus,
thinking of how ridiculous is was that we had to move away from that place,
where Ford was born and where I enjoyed salty air in my lungs
simply because housing was too expensive.
The thought was fleeting, though, because the quality of life is good here.
And I like the smell of juniper about equally.
Around midafternoon we ran into thicker rain, to explain the mounting traffic.
When we arrived in DFW, cars were swimming in feeder lanes,
and flashing lights from towtrucks, fire trucks and squad cars reflected in the flood.
The following day, we spent much of out time in the car.
Why? Because I forgot how big DFW really is. In fact, we lived out of the car,
collecting disposable stuff and growing stinky.
Chas would go to bed later that night exuding that patented
deep-fried Twinky chimichanga funk, still in his day shirt, but too tired from
a fatty dinner to take a simple bath. Which is okay, because we were tired, too.
Damon had two exhausting days of training. A difficult thing for an introvert.
On the way home, I picked up my needles
and a skein of Peruvian kettle-dyed wool.
I smiled as we passed Willie's Bio Diesel truck stop, in the middle of nowhere,
happily having left that muddled maze of people-clutter behind us.
While the kids were awake the ENTIRE trip back to Austin,
Chas occasionally would point to my needles and frown, reminding me to be careful,
by saying, "ow. ow. ow."
Posted by Steph at 04:08 PM | Comments (2)
March 19, 2006
Sunday
Onions slide around butter in the shiny, black cast iron skillet. I throw in some red peppers, steam rises. It is dark blue outside the window, behind the black silhouettes of leaves. I light a candle on the counter, beside the stove. Next to the candle, the fish glides in a tall column of water, backlit a glowing orange-pink from the lava lamp. Migas, black beans and brown rice. Habanero jack cheese. Strong, dark coffee.
Downtown Austin, 6th street. In the rain, a circe 70s tour bus is parked in front of an old bar. Painted a sandy brown, with a cheesy airbrushed panorama on the side panel: Moab? Hipsters crowd the sidewalks, carrying universal messenger bags and wearing standard issue neutral clothing with close-cropped, tousled hair. Retro eyewear. Shades representing the many faces of a gray day.
Posted by Steph at 07:19 PM | Comments (2)
No Swimming Today, the Pool is Closed for Cleaning
On Wednesday morning, I awoke with a fever and an aching body. Chas sat up beside me, with gloriously knotted bed hair, and began to pat my head with thundering blows. Ford, still asleep, snuggled closer, raking his razor sharp toenails along the back of my leg. I remember searching for a focal point, questioning whether I felt more like puking or finding a hole to crawl in.
It was another bout of mastitis, and I spent the rest of the day in bed, rolled up in layers of flannel and fleece. I am lucky to have a husband who can occasionally work from home, and a good friend who can watch my children while I sleep.
The following day, I recovered enough to make the weekly trip to Costco, babysit and help the neighbors move in. It amazes me, the body's will to recover when the mind is still feeble. It bounces back with surprising memory, catching us off guard as we try and coordinate our muscles to the impulsive drive to do more.
Yet, despite the quick recovery, the wellspring of creativity has slowed to a trickle; I find myself cleaning toilets and attempting to tighten ship, as if I were ready to set sail. Actually, we are driving to Dallas tomorrow morning, and I need to finish packing our bags. Maybe once the dust settles in the car, on the way to Dallas, I will find the focus I need. I'll bring a skein of yarn in a lollipop colorway, and coast on autopilot while my brain sorts things out. Knitting is good therapy, like cross training for the brain. I know this much: cleaning the toilets hasn't really helped much. And Lysol toilet bowl cleaner smells HORRIBLE!!!! I'm getting my money back. yuck. There has to be a greener way to clean toilets.
Posted by Steph at 05:37 AM | Comments (2)
March 15, 2006
SPT: time: week 2
Midday, as the sun passed over us:
Chas dangled from my arms like a marionette,
complaining that I wouldn't let him swim.
I inadvertently pissed off the fish.
I think it was my shirt.
Ford asked me to retrieve a berry,
he later pelted me in the head with it.
I fed Chas avocado chunks, but he didn't eat much.
I worried that he isn't eating enough.
While Ford asked "which is faster, 'x' or a satallite?"
Where x = many, many, many different things:
jet planes, cars, space shuttle, rocket...
Posted by Steph at 10:41 AM | Comments (6)
March 14, 2006
Kath at Redcurrent made me a winner! Once again, I love Kath! And I can't wait to get the pants in the mail.
Ford ran his first 1k fun run at the Austin Rodeo Rumble. We trotted beside him past cotton candy machines, hot dog stands and hat vendors, in the noontime heat. But he was a winner, himself! It was the first time in two years when he agreed to wear shorts and a tshirt (he prefers long clothing).
Chas lounged in the chariot with a popsicle:
Sheep dog trials were underway in the arena afterwards. Their finesse blew me away, and made me wish I were so effective corralling my own kids. Focused and efficient, the Australian shepherds rested on the ground while the cattle fumbled over each other on their way through chutes. We'll have an Aussie Shepherd next door in a few days; our neighbors are moving from Santa Cruz county, dog in tow. Will it dutifully keep everyone out of the road? Hope so.
We spent the better part of yesterday hung over, the kids climbing all over us in blinding sunlight while we lay in bed. Around 5pm, I rallied the kids (as if they needed any help) for a neighborhood detox run. It was difficult. Ford wanted to run every so often in one-minute sprints, then recline in the twinner. I plodded along, feeling full of sand and rather gummy. But it was well worth it, because dinner the night before at Polly's, drinking wine while the kids orbited around us at warp speed, was uplifting, totally fun. In the meadow behind their home, I saw the first bats of the season, flitting about above fresh green grass in the twilight.
We took a spring walk this morning at Zilker Botanical Gardens. I helped Ford list all the new emergences: flowering quince, fragrant mountain laurel, new growth at the base of old inland sea oats, cypress trees leafing out in whispy tufts of soft lime green needles, ferns unfurling in dappled shade.
I called out to Ford, "Look Ford, there's some spiderwort!"
and he walked up to investigate, but snorted back "That's NOT spiderwort! That's Purple Heart, mom!"
And I smiled and shook my head, amazed at what four year-olds spit back out at their parents, these days. He looked up at me in rebuttal, face scrunched up in the sunlight.
Some unabashed, desperate attempt of one tree to get laid--what kind if tree is this?!:
Posted by Steph at 06:06 PM | Comments (4)
March 11, 2006
Studio Friday: Eyes, and Chas' Birth Quilt
When Chas was somersaulting in utero, around seven months, I began to stew up a birth quilt for him. At the time, Ford had checked out a book from the library that I found terribly inspiring, Ducklings and Pollywogs by Lizzy Rockwell. The guache and watercolor illustrations were flat but the compositions rich in detail, and I'd find myself oggling the pages when I was on the phone, or sipping coffee. It was the theme that most intrigued me: paying reverence to a small pond throughout the year, noticing small changes, seasons. So I chose to use a pond theme for the quilt. One afternoon I tore the colors I loved out of old magazines, and after I had a collection, began to assemble them on a page in my sketchbook. After the arrangement seemed right, I picked up a glitter pen and made droplets fall upon the water, adding rings of vibrations through the pond, as if I was looking into the water during a rain. For more interest, I started drawing black eyes of frogs. I cut them out and pasted them onto the paper (I had made about twelve little compositions). After that, I was in love.
Of course, after selecting fabrics and playing with applique, I chose a composition based less on cryptic eyeballs peeking out of the water and more on the idea of lilypads, or pods, on the water. Something more evocative of how I felt as I sewed: healthy, whole, very pregnant.
I handpainted the watery background, staining the kitchen floor with aqua splatters. Scraps of pond colors littered the hallway floor, beneath the table where I worked. Natural specimens lined the window above my sewing machine: reeds, willow blossoms, seed pods and empty chrysalises. With my machine, I sewed ripples in the water fabric with gossamer thread, sandwiching soft layers and different textures of cotton. I tied the quilt with different shades of green, like the aquatic plants that slide between my toes when I wade.
Chas noticed the circles one day, very young, and smiled, running his finger along the seam of a circle. I was so pleased.
And I like the way it turned out, myself.
Posted by Steph at 10:02 AM | Comments (17)
March 10, 2006
I awoke this morning at 4am, staring up at the smoke detector's red light staring back at me. Fat raindrops clinked on the dry gutter, the pats becoming crowded until the sound showered the roof with a roaring rain. I tossed in bed, restlessly wondering whether I'd closed the car's sunroofs, until the rain became steady and sedate.
We had a playdate this morning. I love it when our home is full of kids, reassembling pretense and climbing over each other, cutting up the quiet order with their happy chatter. In the front's wake, the sun shone brilliantly through zero atmosphere, as it does on mountaintops. While the boys played with the Millenium falcon on the driveway, I picked up a transparent purple beach ball and a racketball racket, volleying the ball against the garage door. I could slam it satisfyingly hard, with all my might, and it would cheerfully float back to the racket without complaining. Occasionally a gust would blow it towards the yuccas, but I'd run after it, flip-flops flapping, and slam the ball back towards the house, losing sight of it to the blinding sun.
The oaks and grasses sparkled in the sun but barely waved in the rolling wind, while three red-tailed hawks spun round overhead, crying into the canyon. Black vultures weaved in and out of each other, as commuter jets suspended long white threads behind them all, high up in the stratosphere. The Texas Mountain Laurel, blooming violet and happy, smells like grape bubble gum. The weatherman proclaims a weak year for wildflowers; we haven't had enough rain.
It's night now, and the moon has gilded the landscape with pale white light. I am counting all the toys I'm too lazy to go outside and pick up: two kids bicycles, a basketball hoop, several balls, two or three cups, a frisbee and a Tonka truck. They shine and sparkle under the constellations, and I could release the kids to play outside as it is, if they weren't leaden with sleep in the bed. Besides, the coyotes are beginning to wail.
Posted by Steph at 06:05 AM | Comments (1)
March 09, 2006
Corners
I would love to have a fancy hardwood barn and dollhouse for the kids to play with. But they are expensive! I think I made a smart decision to recycle some boxes from Costco, fashion a good working barn from them and gesso it for the kids. One morning soon, we'll get around to "decorating" it. Until then, it's been getting good use as it is.
Since I can't have my own Hanoverian gelding, I bought a pretty one at Target. It's a Schleich and I named it Claus. When the boys ask me to play, I tap it across the rug in a meditative half pass left, then right, then I a collected canter around the rug's perimeter. Chas will pick up a heifer and follow my little program. Ford picks up the Velociraptor and shrieks, thrusting it through the upstairs doorway, attacking the little brown rabbit.
And there you have it: the farm play "corner," which actually is sitting atop Chas' birth quilt, atop the chaise in the living room. But we carry it all over, sometimes outside. See more corners here.
Posted by Steph at 10:22 AM | Comments (2)
March 08, 2006
SPT: Week 1: Time
In 2000, the experts told us it would take on average about one year to conceive, after throwing the pills in the trash. I googled (on Yahoo, at the time) "trying to conceive" and followed my nose to babycenter, which suggested the use of a basal thermometer to predict the time of ovulation. On the way home from Point Reyes, I stopped off at the Long's drugstore in Mill Valley and found a ten dollar basal thermometer on the bottom shelf. Smiling at the clerk, I stepped back out into the rain and into the world of possibility. I felt control and the hand of science on my shoulder.
Some mornings I awoke at six, to journal, and I'd forget to take my temperature until I was already comfortable on the sofa. Irritated, I'd drag myself back into the bedroom and wake Damon up with the tiny BEEP BEEP BEEPing. Then, I'd turn the corner, reach into the medicine cabinet, and pull out my chart. I'd have to squint my eyes to plot the coordinates.
Other mornings, I'd open my eyes to bright sunlight, staring at the ceiling with fatigue. The chart made its way to the bedside table, out of convenience, and the beeping and recording would commence. Those were dreamy mornings, before children, when the sun could rise up high in silence. When the scrub jays would wake me up, rasping among my zoo of potted geraniums, spilling over the balcony.
It only took one month, one spike. One night? Clockwork. Looking at Ford, as he sleeps with rosy red cheeks and a tangle of blonde curls beside me, I can't say I wish it had taken longer. But it was a year-long program, and we took the weekend workshop. It wasn't supposed to be this easy, and I, torn between pride and guilt, hysteria and fear, stood there staring at the pink line in the bathroom for ten minutes. The countertop was cluttered with tears and cosmetics, the pregnancy test commanding my focus. I looked up, smiling with red eyes and a wrinkled forehead, naked in every way, and carried the test to Damon. And the last thing I remember from that night was him, holding me and laughing, wondering why I was crying, running his fingers down his chin as he does when he's trying to make sense of someone else's imperfect logic. This time, however, with a hint of pride. We'd done good.
Posted by Steph at 12:24 PM | Comments (4)
March 06, 2006
The Brutal Curiosity of Youth
The lake today breathed a joyful sigh of peace before spring break arrives, next week, to slosh her with boat fuel, beer and music. Polly and I stood thigh-deep in the cold water, prattling about this and that, while Atticus and Ford rollicked on and off the diving platform. Chas and Tabitha teetered chest-high in the wakes from the occasional ski boats, the water slapped playfully against the banks and the youngsters, who didn't seem the least appalled. What I thought was a minnow and then maybe a tadpole turned out to be a mayfly larva, swimming like a snake an inch below the surface. As I lifted it out of the water atop my palm, it walked along walked along my hand with surprisingly deft strength against the water's surface tension. In order to take a closer look, Ford did something I cannot do anymore: he lifted the insect between his fingers and carried it away.
Most children enjoy letting slugs wander across their arms, caterpillars creep over fingers. Dad brought a jar of grasshoppers for the kids to play with last summer. Chas sat and picked them, one by one, out of the jar, letting them crawl all over himself. When I was Ford's age, I remember picking up insects in this matter-of-fact way. I had Stag beetles, tarantulas, and pet grasshoppers, large, shiny red-on-black grasshoppers that I kept in mason jars. And then one day, I picked up an earthworm. It was cool, pinkish-brown and very long. I wondered at it's sleekness, imagining that it could stretch to great lengths if it wanted to. So I pulled it gently between my fingers until it cracked in two places, exposing its tragic red insides to me. I remember dropping it, as I have seen Ford abandon his kill, only I felt sick. I still feel sick. I wonder what Ford feels, when his fingers erase another small life. Lifting him over the bank, as we were leaving, I noticed a very small gossamer wing on his arm.
(Sigh.) The mayfly?
It is midnight in early March, and I'm hearing what I can't bring myself to believe: a mockingbird serenading outside on the telephone pole.
Posted by Steph at 11:55 PM | Comments (8)
The Validator
"Mom, where are we going?"
"We're going to the store, so you can get a new hat and so I can get some yoga pants."
"Why are you getting new pants?"
"Because Daddy says I look silly in those grey lounge pants, you know, the soft ones."
"YOU DON'T LOOK SILLY! YOU LOOK AWESOME!" he yelled from the backseat. He yelled!
Posted by Steph at 12:26 PM | Comments (3)
March 05, 2006
Pedernales morning
We drive to the Pedernales River this morning for a hike. It is quiet around 11:50 except for the last of the churchgoers leaving mass. We cruise under a weary, overcast sky that echoes a landscape hardly awake from winter, except for a lone quince tree blazing pink alongside a truckstop. 290 is growing. What was once a frontier escarpment of limestone and prickly pear is now claimed property of "Muirwood" and "Oak Haven" and the mycelium of other residential real estate developments. But the road itself is still old. We climb and descend each hill like a motorboat on choppy water, tossed about by the scars of traffic and extreme temperatures on the road, our eyes following the varicose veins of long asphalt-filled cracks in the pavement. Scores of Open House signs are everywhere, in short trains of five or six (per builder) they picket the shoulder. There's a balmy southern breeze and the American flag at the Pulte Highpointe Information Center is at full-mast, waving gloriously. I wonder how many prospective homeowners will visit this trailer today. A part of me can understand how a person would appreciate a home, like the ones I see beyond the trailer, sitting on two green acres and surrounded by white ranch fencing. Perfect for your one-horse family and sidekick goat.
People driving along this road must buy a lot of pottery, rustic metal art and deer antlers; every other store has a side yard filled with chimineas and yard art. Sheet metal silhouettes of cowboys leaning against imaginary walls are among them, so you could (if you wanted to) lean one of those buckaroos against the entrance to your ranch, right there next to the gate. So everyone would know your home was cowboy-friendly, supporting all cowboy-related endeavors.
Damon used to work on the King Ranch. When he was in high school, he had many different roles on the ranch, and his least favorite was the caballero duty of processing freshly-purchased cattle for their new life on the King Ranch. And since he worked during the summers, I'll begin the description of setting to include blistering heat and dust. Add to that, a two-foot layer of bull shit to stand in (and I mean literally), the smell of burnt flesh, the bustling sounds of hydraulics and metal and groaning cattle.
There's a short list of duties to perform on the newly-purchased stock: a bloodbath of dehorning, branding, castrating and immunizing. You corral cow into the chute with a cattle prod. If it's female, the most effective way to move her is to stun her with a cattleprod to the clit (I kid you not). If the cow has horns, you take a large pair of tree pruners and slam, slam, slam them together until the horn lops off, trailed by a river of blood from the marrow (since the horns are, after all, a part of the cow's skull). While the cow is bleeding out, you take a branding iron and burn the famous running W onto its hide (a cow may have many brands over the course of his or her life). Then, if it's a bull, you have to castrate it. It's a systematic thing, really: you slice with a razor blade, pull them out. Period. Lastly, you immunize. If you look up occasionally while injecting, you can pound the huge hypodermic needle accidentally into your own leg, as Damon did. While all of this is going on, the Mexican laborers will take a few testicles and fry them over the same fire that's heating the branding irons, a sort of freak show snacking. And at the end of the day, the laborers will often take a long latex rubber glove, the kind used for artificial insemination, and fill them with the leftover balls to take home. They'll leave, smiling and proud, holding a bloody bag of bluish-pink cow balls to cook up later, for themselves? For their family?
Yes, we are in the middle of country with a capital K, as in Kountry Kitchen, Kountry Klutter and Hill Kountry Kabins. I had to retype these names a few times to get it right. It was difficult.
The river is low. The river bottom is worn smooth, and deep crevasses bore through the bedrock like swiss cheese. I hold my breath as I boulder with Chas in the backpack over deep divides, and gasp when Ford leans over edges, peering into the whirlpools. We stop to investigate fossils, embedded everywhere along the riverbottom terrace.
On our walk back up the trail, I stop in my tracks to listen. I hear a slight symphony beyond our parade of noise: Ford is belting out more White Stripes, while Chas is simultaneously repeating Dvorak's New World Symphony (to the three syllables "Hi Daddy, Hi Daddy," over and over again--amazing in itself!). Everyone stops, and we all hear it, the distant sound of geese underwater. Looking up, we see birds flying in V-formation, due North, but they are clearly not geese. In a less-focused, more carefree jaunt, these are actually Sandhill cranes flying at about 2000 feet. We watched as they flew over the river, paused, and dissociated into a flowing fabric of cranes, wafting upwards on thermals in freeflowing spiral, resting their wings as they ascended. For about three minutes or so they did this, until one set course and the rest followed, straight into V-formation once more.
We learned three new things on the longish return hike uphill:
1. open-toed sandals and sand do not really mix well, according to a 4 year-old.
2. Ford will knock down any structure, no matter how sacred, to prove his power over inanimate objects.
3. Chas will always attempt to get in the water, so never take him out of the backpack without preparation.
Posted by Steph at 11:56 PM | Comments (2)
March 04, 2006
New Routine
The past two days have been unusually exhausting. I'm not sure if it's Chas' being sick, or missed sleep or, quite simply, Ford, but I rarely feel so mentally drained. I sit down to write, and feel nothing. It's a dull, cottony feeling. I type three sentences, erase two. Type ten sentences, erase eight. I am not making any sense, and my stomach feels sour.
It's not so bad being tired and numb, but it's awful being blind to what's running underneath, although I have a feeling it's symptomatic of sleep deprivation. I'm standing in a pitch dark cave without a headlamp`, groping for a wall to guide myself towards someplace concrete, and hopefully in the direction of light, although I'd be content just to feel a wall to lean on and hug. Why can't I just sleep at night, when it is dark? Why does my body want to stay awake, even if my mind is asleep? What little time there is to claim, after they have all gone to bed, is very little in exchange for the sacrifice of mental clarity (or something remotely similar).
So tonight (and for the next week) I am signing off an hour earlier. I want to see what happens when I redistribute the weight on the scales. It is 11:15pm, and the laundry is piled up, the toys are still scattered across the house, there may be a pile of spaghetti on the kitchen floor: I am TOO tired to tackle it now, and power to the bug that discovers it first. I'll clean up in the morning.
Posted by Steph at 05:21 AM | Comments (2)
March 01, 2006
What numbers do you see revealed in the patterns of dots below?
It's 8. Yes, we ate all the leeks from the farmstand last week in a potato and leek soup. Here are the leeks, chopped and soaking in a bowl of water, de-sanding themselves. I steamed the leftover romanesco and served it atop the soup, drizzling hemp seed oil around it. The presentation appealed to the kids, and they ate it up. I braised the rest of the carrots in honey and butter, based on a recipe from Deborah Madison's cookbook (which I HIGHLY recommend). Ford made honey whole wheat bread. Yum. Chas won't let me type much more than this, every task is getting interrupted with bouts of constipation and running snot.But tomorrow is market day again, so I'm looking forward to stocking up again on agrarian sights and smells. And vegetables. Hopefully, Amy will meet us there, again? Hopefully the kids will be better. Hopefully Chas will finally POOP....
Posted by Steph at 02:48 PM | Comments (2)
SPT: all of me :week 4
Zilker park, public restrooms. Bad hair day. Blah. We're all pretty tired.
Posted by Steph at 06:36 AM | Comments (2)