What color should the sweater be, Google? Want to chime in?

I bought a sweater pattern for my mother. When she’s in France and the tourists are running amok across the markets and museums and roads she stays at home and knits. She plows through socks and sweaters and slipper clogs while, outside, the mistral winds blow and the Ugly Americans/Brits/Italians plunder the olive stalls.

I’ve been meaning to get to the post office to mail it to her and still intend to slip it into the package that is full of silly things. In the meantime she suggested I scan it so she could look it over. This morning I logged on to my gmail account and replied to a thread that my mother and sister have written on. I mentioned that I’d attached the pattern and made a sarcastic remark about the glee my sister takes in my tomato harvest annually coinciding with our vacation week. Trish reaps the benefits. Literally. I hit send.

Google asked, “Did you mean to attach files? You wrote “I’m attaching” in your message, but there are no files attached.  Send anyway?”

That’s a little creepy, Hal Google.

But, uh, thanks.

Summer dreaming

Summer is my least favorite of all the seasons. I don’t do well in the heat. I find the following things somewhat replusive: flip flops worn outside of a pool/beach/shower setting, men in tank tops, women wearing tops that reveal either their tramp stamp tattoos or the kind that go from shoulder blade to shoulder blade… Mosquitoes aren’t high on my list either.

Still… in my efforts to be more positive, more grateful, more appreciative of my lot in life I’ll admit that I really like the end of the day when we can sit on the back deck. Right now Robby’s checking facebook on his laptop. I’m typing this with a new library book at the ready. We have glasses of iced tea. The puppies are curled up sleeping nearby. Jack’s little kiddie pool is filled and there are little wet footprints surrounding us.

He was sick yesterday– a nasty little case of strep throat that swept in suddenly and stole all his energy and brightness. He was listless and clingy and feverish. Today he’s full of energy again. (And piss and vinegar. Delightfully accurate phrase, that.)

There are some incredibly noisy birds that I’m trying to appreciate. We couldn’t hear them earlier– Jack was playing ball across the fence with his buddy Collin. Collin lives behind us. Our back yards sort of line up. If Jack stands in his fort and Collin stands on his swingset they can carry on long games of ball or conversations.

My backyard is full of weeds right now. I’m ignoring them. I don’t like weeding. But I do like checking the progress on my tomatoes and peppers and lettuces and beans. We have brussel sprouts this year– not sure how they’ll do.

And there is the promise of Grater’s marshmallow topping. Sent in the mail from Chris and Susan with cans of Cincinnati chili. When the mosquitoes drive us in we’ll break into that.

March lambs and April showers bring May snow?

This weather is strange. It’s warm and late-Aprily. I don’t trust it. While around me there are facebook posts about “Breaking out the flipflops!” and people in the grocery store remarking, “It’s a good night to grill out!” I’m waiting for the snow that is sure to still hit us. This is not the harbinger of summer. It’s an unseasonable stretch of good weather.

Yesterday Robby stayed home from work. His stomache has been gurgling for a few days and kept him up all the night before… but what pushed him over the edge of reason was the lovely, soft, warm day. We sent Jack off to school and then lazed around for most of the day. I’d had a long, long list of chores I’d hoped to complete by the end of the school day but threw it to the winds. It was nicer to sit, uninterrupted, with the morning paper and husband. (And two small dogs.) Momma called to invite me to lunch and then, extended it to Robby as well. (She was startled that he’d be home. Husband as a reputation for having a good work ethic.) So we went and sat at Momma and Eric’s table– on their patio in the pale, Spring sunshine– and feasted on grilled ground beef and fried potatoes, fried parsnips, and tomatoes. We ran errands in the afternoon– pleased at the ability to finish a sentence without a plaintive, “Daddy?” or “MOMmy!” interrupting.

Last night we took Jack out for a stroll– he on his bike and we each with a leash. Philbin trots obediently and respectfully at my ankles. Hildy strains and pulls at the leash as though he is pulling all the weight of Robby. And Jack pedals sturdily on and on with his bike-helmet clad head bobbling. We rode/strolled over to Momma’s house and were plied with butter and sugar crepes and red wine– a nice surprise.

Robby, at day’s end, was in better health. I’m not sure what gave him more– a day away from the office or the extra rest or the sunshine or the perfect lunch at Momma’s? Maybe all of it.

Next week or the next it will get cold and “unseasonably” gray and damp. It will snow, perhaps. And the flip-floppers will shiver. Me, I’ll think of yesterday and wait to plant my garden.

Our First Full Day

Jack’s first full day of school proved very productive for me…

Finished up a huge project on the computer, made a batch of frosted ginger creams that I’ve been jonesing for, put up a few jars of peach freezer jam, and made a new pasta dish*.

By winter break I’m going to gain about 35 pounds.

Today I’ll tackle the laundry instead.

Jack, for his part, had his first “Gym Class!” and learned how to do “Jumping Jacks”– all in all a great day for a little man.

 

*Store-bought three cheese tortellini with my sauce: sauteed garlic and sage from our garden in olive oil and butter… with pine-nuts thrown in for texture. Yay me. It was delicious.

Simple gifts

Little joys pop up.

In the comfort of a plate of starchy, salty Hamburger Helper. In the promise of boulangerie meringues from France this week. In the warm tomatoes from the pots on our deck.

In Jack’s sticky little hands wrapped around my neck and his whispered, “Mommy! I like you!”

In the sudden appearance of Keegan who brought a Sam’s Club pretzel and a nap.

Strawberry jello.

The second half of the BBC Sense & Sensibility.

Texts from Susan.

Sleep. Tylenol with codeine.

Jack’s bunny cup. It has a bunny popo on it. It makes us laugh.

Laughing.

We’ll take it.

You say Tomato…

The tomatoes are in the garden. There are heavy branches of them with dozens of green tomatoes… in a few days I’ll be up to my ears in them… As much as I hate summer (and I do. It’s hot. It’s sticky.) I really love the weeks where the tomatoes and beans are coming in. All winter and spring we endure dreadful tomatoes with only the memory of what they should taste like… and then! Pow! they’re back in all their explosive-flavor glory.

A few tomatoes have made an early entrance. They’re sassy these Early Girls– they flaunt their bright red jackets in the faces of their still-green neighbors. They’re fat girls. They have round shoulders and they make the vines sag.

My Granny had put in a request for a summer tomato. It came to me through my Aunt Becky who passed the plea along to my mother who turned it over to me. Granny lives in an assisted-living studio apartment. It’s a nice place– the halls are carpeted and there are antique prints and pieces of china decorating halls and nooks. The “girls” that work there are friendly and kind to us when we visit. (We assume that they are friendly and kind to our Granny, too– and not viciously beating her when our backs are turned like an episode of CSI.) They have delicious smelling meals made in a little kitchen off the dining area– we’ve all eaten there with Granny for a meal or two and while the food is simple it’s good.

Still– there are gaps in the menu. Tomatoes, with all their acidity, aren’t generally served. Cooked ones are. But the raw tomatoes tend to be the icky, whitish ones that you get at the grocery store. Granny’s been jonesing for a dripping, red summer tomato.

So, the other day, Jack and I popped in with farmer’s market bread, a jar of mayo, and a couple of fresh off our vine ‘maters. We spoiled Granny’s supper appetite completely and picnicked in her room with thick slices of bread and tomatoes squishing out in between. I brought her a glass bottled coke, too– it’s what you should wash down a tomato sandwich with…

This week I won’t grumble at the weeding. This years gardening efforts are worth it now.

Mother of a Day

Both of my boys have colds. (Not sure yet about the dog… he’s been punky all day but that’s not entirely unusual.)

Rob had plans to have him “and Jack” make me breakfast in bed. That was before the husband started coughing up a lung yesterday. We ended up getting breakfast from the nice little Mom&Pop place across town. They make biscuits and gravy almost as good as I do.

Jack and I, for our part, stayed in our pajammas all day long. We had, as background music, the Brady Bunch TV Land marathon. Even Jack seemed dulled by that.

There were presents (for me and Jack– I wouldn’t be a mother without him) and cards and phone calls to my mother in France and Rob’s mother up north. All of our plans to work on the gardens went up in the smoke of Robby’s cough creeping into our lungs and the cold, rainy day.

Really, the best part of today was Jack being cuddley (a sure sign that tomorrow he’ll be in the full blown stage of Daddy’s cold) and sweet. He said, “Mommeee Mommmeeee” a lot today.

The kid knows where to shop.

P.S. And the goodness of today continues– the latest update on our little friend Nettie is good. She’s starting to take over the functions that machines and medicines did for the last 10 days. Her brain pressure is down to a good number… Your prayers and good thoughts are so very much appreciated. No one should spend Mother’s Day (or Father’s Day) in a children’s IC unit. Please keep Nettie in your thoughts. And thank you for all the emails you’ve sent this way– so many of you that have written me haven’t ever had the pleasure of meeting my friends or their daughter and yet you’ve stopped to include them in your daily prayers. Thank you for being the kind of people you are.