2003-06-15
(no subject)
I have sun across my nose, my cheeks, and my forearms.
I made hummus this morning, a very simple thing that became suddenly more complicated when a recipe is double, but the blender pitcher isn't. I was using a long-handled wooden spoon just to plunge to the depths of chickpea muck so that the blades could spin more freely with additions of water and lemon juice. By the end of it I was swearing and totally annoyed, but it turned out to be one of the best batches I have ever made. It was garlicky and smooth, and when I spatched it into the container to take with me to my mom's (in other words, used a spatula to move it from pitcher to plastic tub), it seemed like the frustration was worth it.
I sat out in the backyard, watching the little stepnephew and stepniece splash about in the pool, and I drank Coke like I always do when I am there. I never drink soda any more, but somehow when I am out in the 'burbs, with the stepfamily, cola seems like just the thing, especially if my stepbrother Tom manages to convince me to add some rum to the mix.
My mom took me shopping, and in an episode of kindness that left me feeling bashful and grateful, she got me a mixer (standing mixer, with bowl, and dough hook), and a hand blender, something that Scott took with him when he moved out. She knows I am still struggling to make it from paycheck to paycheck, and she and Ro (her husband) have been good verbal support, as well as generous with time and hand-me-down appliances and useful things.
In the car on the way back, my mom suddenly said, "Give me your hand for a minute." I smiled, and grasped her hand. She squeezed, and I squeezed back, and she said, "My little girl."
You know, in a lot of ways in the past several years, my own father has been supportive and energetic in helping me along through my life, in his own way. But my mom, she's been both father and mother to me, parenting me as much from example as from common sense. She gets to share Father's Day with all the other dads out there, because she's been my all and my everything, in spite of our differences and our arguments, slammed doors of teenage angst, and the times I don't call or visit often enough (it's never enough, of course. Moms never tell you that, but it's true. No matter how much, it's never enough.)
The sun set as slowly as it could, golden and heavy and warm.
Dinner is cooking on the stove, the fan is making slow circles of shadow against the ceiling, and my hands are pleasantly pruned from washing dishes.
I made hummus this morning, a very simple thing that became suddenly more complicated when a recipe is double, but the blender pitcher isn't. I was using a long-handled wooden spoon just to plunge to the depths of chickpea muck so that the blades could spin more freely with additions of water and lemon juice. By the end of it I was swearing and totally annoyed, but it turned out to be one of the best batches I have ever made. It was garlicky and smooth, and when I spatched it into the container to take with me to my mom's (in other words, used a spatula to move it from pitcher to plastic tub), it seemed like the frustration was worth it.
I sat out in the backyard, watching the little stepnephew and stepniece splash about in the pool, and I drank Coke like I always do when I am there. I never drink soda any more, but somehow when I am out in the 'burbs, with the stepfamily, cola seems like just the thing, especially if my stepbrother Tom manages to convince me to add some rum to the mix.
My mom took me shopping, and in an episode of kindness that left me feeling bashful and grateful, she got me a mixer (standing mixer, with bowl, and dough hook), and a hand blender, something that Scott took with him when he moved out. She knows I am still struggling to make it from paycheck to paycheck, and she and Ro (her husband) have been good verbal support, as well as generous with time and hand-me-down appliances and useful things.
In the car on the way back, my mom suddenly said, "Give me your hand for a minute." I smiled, and grasped her hand. She squeezed, and I squeezed back, and she said, "My little girl."
You know, in a lot of ways in the past several years, my own father has been supportive and energetic in helping me along through my life, in his own way. But my mom, she's been both father and mother to me, parenting me as much from example as from common sense. She gets to share Father's Day with all the other dads out there, because she's been my all and my everything, in spite of our differences and our arguments, slammed doors of teenage angst, and the times I don't call or visit often enough (it's never enough, of course. Moms never tell you that, but it's true. No matter how much, it's never enough.)
The sun set as slowly as it could, golden and heavy and warm.
Dinner is cooking on the stove, the fan is making slow circles of shadow against the ceiling, and my hands are pleasantly pruned from washing dishes.