Hook,

I don't know where I've been. In Stupid Land? Too stupid to write anything here, even stupid things. How many times can I say 'stupid'? Feels liberating to write it because I live with small people who are always ready to tell me "Don't say 'stupid', Mom!" As if I've really trained them so well. Wasn't it one of my darlings who only yesterday removed his diaper unnoticed and did...something in the dining room?

I don't need to have a dog in order to have poop on the floor. I love how I can streamline my life. Forget ridding my over-crowded house of unused, unnecessary, not to mention ugly books, furniture, toys and hoo-hah. I've got a recently and rabidly un-housetrained two year old instead: the perfect excuse to give the six year old who really really wants a puppy.

Would you rather I write about a recipe I'm dying to try? How about a whole category of food instead. Make that two: fruit pies and margaritas. Sour margaritas and any kind of fruit pie made with smitten kitchen's painfully beautiful and painfully buttery pie crust. The smell of that crust haunts my dreams. And I wish a tart margarita would haunt my days.

And when are you going to make me fried chicken, hmm? I'd make biscuits and slaw and strawberry pie and dress all in gingham. I know, you're at the lake going fishin' and eating bizarres with Bert. I can wait for fried chicken until you return, but not much longer.

Fagin

Stultiloquence

Dear Fagin,

Where are you? I mean, I know where you are. I just saw you yesterday. But still, where are you? I'll remind you that this whole blog thing was your idea... I think. And here I am vomiting my brain twaddle all over it with nary a word from you.

C'mon, you've got thoughts. And feelings. I know you do. Like how about Reading Lessons, or Terrible Twos, or The Color Pink? How does it make you feel when I bring my kid over to whine at you and eat all your food? How does it feel when I bring myself over to whine at you and eat all your food? What's an average day at your house like? What's the recipe you're most dying to try at the moment?

How crusty are your feet?

No?

That's just me? Alright then.

Don't write if you don't wanna. I'm mostly just pissy because I'm bored and there's nothing to read (besides the dozen books I checked out of the library). And I need to pee wicked bad but the bathroom's all the way upstairs. Yoho.

This is one of those Summer days. You know the sort. Hot. Boring. Mehhhhhhh. I finished reading "Julie and Julia" yesterday, and hated it. You told me I would. What a miserable read. What an unappealing person! Sorry if that offends you Readers. But I know it doesn't because we don't have any Readers.

Ha. This is exactly the sort of random driveling I didn't want to write. Next time I will write about World Peace or Religion or Something Important. Mmmmmkay.

Bert Snert was in the dirt.

His lunch was smeared all over his shirt.

He bedaubed his neck

With feculent dreck.

Pert curt hurt blurt skirt.

I'm sorry,

Hook

Surprised By Joy

Dear Fagin,

It occurred to me yesterday, not for the first time, that I am settling. I know, I know, "settling" has a bad connotation these days. It's giving up on your dreams, taking less than you deserve, copping out. The mortal sins of the Society of Me. After all, I opted out of grad school in favor of marrying The Man, starting a family and - gasp! - staying home. I settled for an older car, a less glamorous job, and three dollar Target clearance tees.

Ok, so I didn't really settle. I married a man I profoundly respect and love. I'm blessed with a child whose worth is infinitely beyond my deserving. Even when he's being a toot. I have comfort, security, and people in my life. I didn't settle at all, if you want to push the issue. And I'm happy.

I. Am. Happy.

That may sound trite, but lately those words have been walloping me over the head. Over and over. I am settling and I am happy. Or maybe settling in is a better way to put it. I'm finally starting to feel like I've caught up with myself! Like I'm not measuring my life in phases. Or something.

Do you know what I mean? Is this something everyone feels at one point or another? Did God blast me with Celestial Joy just for the heck of it? Is this a routine part of growing up, or am I simply slow to arrive?

Hello? Ummm, you there?

Do enlighten, dear Older and Wiser Sister. Although, I guess if you don't know either it's not the end of the world. Because I'm totally diggin' this settling thing.

Yours In a Great Stupor of Obviousness,

Hook

Ah You Makin' Chickin?

Dear Fagin,

Don't you just love the ease of Summer? Don't you just love how Summer is the only thing I can talk about lately? Duuuuuuuude, I just can't help myself! There's nothing like having a long day getting a lot done and at the end of it thinking, "Saints alive, it's 7:00! Whatever shall I serve for supper?"

Or just, "Oh crud, whadderwegonnaeat?"

Here's where it gets beautiful, though. The Man flips on his gas grill, and in five minutes we've got chicken and asparagus sizzling while I whip up my most favoritest Caesar salad. Then we carry it all out to the back of the yard and pinch ourselves because it's all just too... heavenly. (There'll be food in Heaven, right? I mean, there's gotta be.)

Do I sounds braggy? Don't worry, it's not like this most nights. Last night we had frozen pizza with a side of bat poop. But the wonderful thing about Summer is that sometimes, often when you're least expecting it, those perfect moments and magazine meals do happen.

And the livin' is easy.

Hook

That Certain Something

What is is about little boys and their dads?

Bert loves his Dad. To him, The Man is... THE MAN. The other day Bert told me, quite seriously, "My Dad is a super hero."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah. He said so."

I know what he means.

At dinner I can't get a word in. Bert just wants to talk to his Dad. He has "so many questions to tell him". He'll make up endless stories just to keep his dad's attention.

Sometimes we argue over who loves The Man. "No no, Mom. You don't love Dad. You love me and I love you, and I love Dad myself."

And I love that.

WWJD?

Dear Fagin,

We have recently been making a greater effort to say the Rosary each night. Bert registers bits and pieces of it, and tries to pitch in when he's not too busy wrapping his Holy Beads around his toes. It's a nasty habit that I'm trying to break, but he is only three so it may take time. I digress.

Tonight we were listing our intentions and he says in his quietest, most reverent voice, "Thank you for our Sins."

Please Advise.

Hook

Red Meat and Fire

Dear Hook,

I so solly about the bats. So very solly. Here's a happy memory to take your mind off the tragedy that is your bat-filled but Edward, Bella, and Jacob-less life.

Remember these beauties? Nothing makes me smile like steak. Slightly charred, perfectly pink inside (thanks to The Man!). I think it was the best dinner I've had in I don't know how long.
And since I'm already forgetting exactly what was done, here's what I do remember:

- you marinated the beef, so I can't say exactly what you did to make it so delicious, but you did say something about lots of soy sauce, worcestershire, and garlic, no?

-potatoes were sliced, boiled (and not mush!) , cooled and tossed with cucumbers, tomatoes, parsley, chives, and tarragon. I think I splashed some red wine vinegar over everything, too. And s & p of course.

- I just couldn't include a picture of the homemade mayonnaise. As lovely as it was, all pungent with garlic and lemon, the photo didn't look lovely at all. Very congealed and slithery looking. Which isn't to say I didn't dab pretty much every mouthful with it. And tasted garlic all night long. All night.

So that's that. It was the kind of meal after which I should have announced, "I am replete." They seem to say that in books, don't they? I'm not even sure what it means, but I figure it something like "I am satisfied and then some."

Fagin