Do you have a house elf?
I am craving a solution to two tiny domestic mysteries: we’ve got a ghost in the house. A ghost, or a tricky house elf, or an invisible door that leads to a pit of no return into which random objects are being tossed. First, it was Fooey’s brand-new blue water bottle. She remembers carrying it into the house after piano lessons, and she remembers setting it down beside her shoes in the front hall. While I can’t corroborate her story, I remember seeing it in the truck beside her when I strapped her in just before we left piano lessons. How could it have gotten lost between piano lessons and home? But, it is gone. She set it beside her shoes in the front hallway, and we haven’t seen it since.
Next, AppleApple remembers removing her lunch box from her school bag last Wednesday and setting it down … well, she doesn’t know where, exactly. She’s a drifting sort of child. Suffice it to say, we haven’t seen it since. Disappeared. I have searched the lost and found at school, she’s searched her classroom (just in case her memory was in error), and we’ve combed every surface, cupboard, and drawer in the house. The bag was a junkie grocery store special, but it was full of lovely reusable containers and a thermos. Gone.
Poof.
These small mysteries are bothering me out of all proportion to the value of what’s been lost. It’s their inexplicable nature. I can’t come up with a reasonable theory. And I do like reasonable theories. They’re so comforting. For now, we’re blaming the house elf. We’ve even started referring to the house elf, on occasion. I heard AppleApple calling for the house elf to point her toward a misplaced something the other day (that item got found).
:::
What I meant to write about was the progress on the porch. The footings are in, and some lumber is now being attached and giant screws are being drilled into brick. These photos were taken this morning. My plan is to take a photo every morning, so we can watch our porch grow. That’s my office there. Can you see it? I almost can.
Give this woman a nap, please
I haven’t been napping. It’s starting to show. Because, yes, I’m still getting up early four mornings a week to exercise, and the combination of less sleep and construction mayhem and zero power naps makes for a woman who looks just a little frayed around the edges.
Confession time. Come a little closer. Let me lay it on you: By early evening, my bark has bite. And the person most likely to be bitten is, well, my husband. He’s around, he’s a grownup, he’s probably doing something not to my (impossible) standards, and snap. Like that.
Yesterday evening, I arrived home from yoga, a two-hour out-of-the-house, happy alone time for me, which is made possible by him. (It’s also made possible by a ton of pre-planning by me). Anyway, I walked in the door, and the dishes were basically done, the school lunches had been made, and the children were upstairs in pajamas with brushed teeth. He was reading to the younger ones. What a lovely scene! All was well. All continued to be well as I did laundry, checked in with homework obligations (older children), and went through the necessary bedtime rituals with the younger ones. All was well until I came downstairs to get myself some supper. I was pretty hungry by this point, and, yes, flipping tired.
I opened the fridge. I saw before me a half-consumed jar of pearsauce. And … I just about lost my mind. Pearsauce!? The pearsauce I canned less than three weeks ago? Which I’d planned on serving in February when pears are but a distance memory? When WE STILL HAVE ACTUAL PEARS????? Yup. That was me. Losing it.
And this was him. Working away at the computer and blinking at me in silence. Really, what else could he do?
I sat down to my bowl of supper, still seething. (Side question: Am I crazy, or do others out there have ideas about when canned food should be eaten? Restrictions? Personally, I like to wait until the snow is falling).
Then I noticed it was time for the big kids to get to bed. “Could you go up and tell them?” I asked Kevin. Who responded, “This is the first time I’ve gotten to sit down since you left for yoga.” Yup, he was probably pissed about the pearsauce; or more precisely, about my reaction to the pearsauce. Which he’d served the children for bedtime snack. While I was at yoga. Having quiet alone time.
This is how wars start.
But off he went, to tell the kids to get to bed. I sat gobbling leftovers and muttering under my breath, Do you think I’m sitting down all day? You get home from work and I’ve got supper on the table and mumble mumble swim lessons! and mumble mumble porch guys here this morning and mumble trying to work and … add in a few choice swear words and you’ve got the picture. I’d dumped it out of my system by the time he came back downstairs. Well, almost. I managed to get in a good grouse this morning when serving the kids breakfast, reminded by the half-eaten jar in the fridge. I’m pretty sure none of them will be asking for canned pearsauce again until the snow flies.
Lest you think I’m all zen all the time. I’m not. And boy, do I need a nap.
(But isn’t that photo zen? Ah. Another one from our summer holiday.)
Seized by the day
I’ve been thinking about that phrase: Seize the day! I’ve been thinking about it because it feels, sometimes, that the day has seized me, and not the other way round. What to do when a day is holding you hostage?
Do you know what I mean?
Yesterday was just such a day. I started with some good seizing of the moment, my alarm pattering at 5:15, in the pool swimming laps (with friends) by 5:45, enjoying a fantastic strong hour of back and forthing, working lungs and arms and legs. And then home, quickly, so my big kids and their dad could seize the day themselves. They headed off to the pool, and I made breakfast and supper, and everyone was eating porridge and eggs, awake and happy by 8am. What a great start to a Monday, one might have congratulated oneself.
And then, down came Monday. A load of lumber arrived. A pneumatic digging machine. A bunch of beefy guys (I’ve got to work beefy guys into my posts more often). Work on the porch footings began. The sun was shining. And suddenly, work came to a halt. I heard it, just like that. An abrupt stop. Unfortunate silence. And, after a couple of beats in time, someone hammering on the door.
This can’t be good, thought I.
It wasn’t. Soon, we had water in the basement, a busted pipe that couldn’t be stopped until the City showed up to stop it, and everyone on my front lawn looked very anxious indeed, and some came down to the basement to haul out rugs and move furniture and wield mops and apologize profusely while I felt like apologizing for the already disastrous state of our basement (do the kids really need to leave their socks EVERYWHERE?)
So … that was my yesterday. I was thankful to have gotten supper prepared before we had no water. I spent the day running up and down stairs to consult with various professionals, while trying to work. This is my writing day??? Thankfully, water was restored just before the kids arrived home from school, two friends in tow, hungry, tired, thirsty, and needing the bathroom.
Writing day and basement-flooding-day was over, and feeding-children-in-a-rush-at-a-ridiculously-early-hour began immediately thereafter. Just after 5pm, me plus three girls pulled out of the driveway to pick up more girls, off to theatre rehearsal. And then Fooey and I went on to her first Highland dance class (tell me she isn’t going to make a perfect little Scottish dancer!). And then I came home and ate supper. Realizing by the hole in my gut that I’d forgotten, in the rushing up and down stairs, to eat lunch. Good grief. It was time to pick Fooey up. Time to clean up from supper. Time to supervise homework. Time, please dear God, to go to bed.
And there I was, lights out, 9:40pm. Seized by the day, shaken and hauled off, and quite at the mercy of it. Just doing my best to stay calm and carry on.
::::
But good news arrived this morning, just a few moments ago, in fact. I’ve received, from my editor, THE FINAL DRAFT of The Juliet Stories. Did you read that correctly? Yes. The final draft. I shall be called upon no more to revamp these stories. They are done. (Well, the copy editing stage remains. But.) Juliet is ready to roll. Not sure where this fits into the seize/seizing equation. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe on the rare occasion one gets to sit back and go ahhhhhhhh. And take a little moment to settle into the knowledge that something big has been completed. That was a whole lot of seizing, folks. A whole lot.
The Week in Suppers: late-September
MONDAY’S MENU. Lentil/flax pasta. Roasted tomato sauce. Green salad. Broiled tofu and eggplant.
THE RATIONALE. Quick. AppleApple and somewhat picky friend rushing out the door by 5pm to their first theatre rehearsal. Preferably with food in tummies.
THE COOKING. Sauce made on Sunday, warmed up from a jar, deliciously easy. Note to self: start boiling pasta water earlier on theatre nights.
THE REVIEWS. “I don’t like sauce.” “Would you eat a carrot if I peeled one for you?” “No … but my mom would make me eat it.”
THE VERDICT. Nobody noticed the pasta was made of lentils and flax.
TUESDAY’S MENU. Lentil soup (harira) in crockpot. Saag paneer. Basmati rice.
THE RATIONALE. Bought paneer on a whim + tons of fresh spinach. Harira flavours similar to dahl, easy to make. Voila: an Indian feast.
THE COOKING. Looked up recipe for saag paneer online, all recipes too complicated, invented my own version that did not involve whirling spinach and spices in food processor. Note to self: cinnamon, cardoman, garam masala, cumin and coriander.
THE REVIEWS. “Mom, will you make this again soon?”: Fooey. I kid you not. Fooey! I was just starting to worry that the child would grow up without ever willingly eating a cooked vegetable, when along comes a pan of spinach and paneer (Indian cheese; it looks a lot like tofu, which she loves). My version included cayenne pepper. She had four helpings over rice.
THE VERDICT. Thrilled mother. Relatively happy family (not everyone loved the spinach, I should add). But lentil soup is liked by all.
WEDNESDAY’S MENU. Beet borsch in the crockpot. Buns and cheese. Coleslaw.
THE RATIONALE. A request from AppleApple. This cook loves requests! Especially those involving bright purple vegetables.
THE COOKING. Lots of chopping, but accomplished before breakfast thanks to the crockpot. Coleslaw whipped up last-minute with an improvised mayo-based dressing. With white sugar.
THE REVIEWS. “I’m not going to try that even if you put it in my bowl.”: Fooey. Ah, back to the norm.
THE VERDICT. Delicious. Sorry, Fooey. You’ll just have to grow to appreciate cabbage and beets.
THURSDAY’S MENU. Veggie dogs, hots dogs, and hamburgers. Potato chips. Leftover borsch.
THE RATIONALE. Meet-the-teacher night. Barbeque fundraiser.
THE COOKING. Heated up the borsch upon returning home around 7pm and feeling under-nourished.
THE REVIEWS. “More juice!”
THE VERDICT. Could have been worse. At least I didn’t have to cook; instead, took the opportunity to nap on the couch around 4:30, with the kids reading and practicing piano around me. That was lovely.
FRIDAY’S MENU. Bailey’s pick-up supper: baguette, soft pretzels, cheese sticks, cheese, tomato and red pepper slices, pickles, brussel sprouts with pecans, melon and purple grapes.
THE RATIONALE. On Friday’s, from May until October, I pick up a wagon-load of local food from Bailey’s.
THE COOKING. Sauteed brussel sprouts in butter. This dish is only eaten by me and Kevin. It is divine.
THE REVIEWS. Happy conversation around the table. Contentment.
THE VERDICT. What could be better?
Best intentions, the weekend edition
What got done this weekend?
Digging potatoes.
Washing potatoes.
Kitchen drudgery: baked four loaves of bread; transformed shrivelled plums into a sauce; whirled and froze five meals’ worth of pesto; roasted and pureed tomatoes as a base for tomato soup and lasagna later this week; baked cookie squares with new baking soda (going on the theory that bad soda caused my treat fail last weekend).
Plus laundry. That’s what comes of having four children and a family involved in multiple sports activities. Also, I’m mildly obsessive compulsive about hanging it to dry.
Soccer tryouts for this child, Saturday and Sunday morning. Lucky me, I got to take her and start both days with a long run on a beautiful autumn trail beside a river.
Vegging and movie-watching. These kids, both afternoons, the same (fairly awful) movie: Cats and Dogs. Plus Kevin and I got out on our own last night and saw a (fairly good) movie: Crazy Stupid Love.
Work on the new garden beds for next spring.
:::
Which leads us to the question: What didn’t get done this weekend?
Church. Again.
Harvesting and drying herbs.
Taking the kids to the Harry Potter matinee uptown today.
Signing up for a marathon in November. But I’ve got the registration window open on my browser, so maybe I’ll get up the guts to do it before the day is over.
Sleep. Two late nights + two early mornings = happy social life (and I need a nap.)
Cleaning and tidying. As you can see. (Are those MY socks on the table???? Oh crumbs, they are. Guess I can’t blame the kids for everything).