Last night's fajitas, the 100 year flood...from my closet

Y'all, I am sore as get out today. My upper back feels like a finely delineated landscape of stiffly tender peaks and mesas. I think it was the spontaneous till-and-toss through the compost pile I jumped into yesterday when I found my pitchfork. I've neglected my pit, and roots had taken hold and spread, deep in the pile, tethering it firmly to the earth below. I dislodged about four pounds of roots, picked out and discarded the identifying labels -"94025" Hass, for example; (I'm always too lazy to peel them off out the outset)- that had come unstuck from now decaying avocado skins, orange peels and so forth, and tidied up the border around the whole thing. It felt extremely productive, but then I went to the gym, and now I'm just tight, like a board. T made the greatest marinade for the chicken last night, and our fajitas were scrumptious. Lime, arbol chiles, freshly ground cumin, salt, a dash of soy...Perfect. I'd also bought some extremely cool red-yellow corn so made a salad with that. After a lovely dinner, I actually read about 50% of the Sunday paper which was positively dreamy and then called it a day.

This morning I awoke with a burr in my butt to clean my closet, an onerous, 100 years kind of task that I've put off for oh, about a year now. 20% of the way in, I was psyched. Now 50% done, I'm dragging and have managed to clear but eight square inches on my bed. I'm wedged and perched in that little spot, looking with some dismay at the flood of hangers and clothing still to be rehung or tossed.

Know what? School starts tomorrow- officially less than 24 hours from now. Who's excited? This girl!! And the boys too! Oliver is primarily excited about his new backpack which is kinda funny, and Jack about being a 2nd grader.

2nd grade seems very big and grown up to me. I remember 2nd grade clearly. Ms. Gay Aday was my teacher (it always killed me that her name rhymed), there were two "mean girls" in my class, Janie Hays and I loved to play kiss chase with Charles Fenet (who we called Chopsticks Fenooty even though we had big crushes on him) at recess, and I still hadn't cut my hair like Mary Lou Retton (a horrible decision I'd make in 3rd grade). As Jack has already cut his own hair, perhaps we can cross that experience from the list.

Funny aside, when J cut his hair earlier this summer, I suggested that it looked vaguely serial killer'ish. Though it didn't occur to me then, of course he didn't know (thank god) what a serial killer was. He later told my mom that "Mom is so silly because she said I looked like a cereal killer. Like I kill Raisin Bran or Puffins. HAH!" Isn't that priceless?! I've never corrected him.

Thoughts on Yankee Candle displays, flashing yellow lights and Labor Day

Unbelievably on this holiday weekend, T and I found a babysitter. She was one of Ol's camp counselors, and he just couldn't have adored her more. Free this afternoon and here now, T and I have, thus, had a fab few hours. We exercised, shopped a bit, ran some errands and felt quietly, happily, delightfully as if we were on a lengthy, productive date. Whilst in a local hardware store returning post-FBI-situation locks that didn't quite fit, I had the unfortunate experience of walking through and getting stalled in (by an unmoving shopper) a Yankee Candle display. I was all zen from my workout detox, and let me tell you that the horrible confluence of treacly aromas jolted me back into a very real present. I do not know how folks have these waxy smell-bombs all over their homes- do you? I would have a perpetual headache and feel hostile about the preponderance of sweet scent. Passing by a Bath and Body Works store elicits the same sense of immediate olfactory overload. Frantic thoughts of RUN flood my mind!

In any case, we were soon on to our next stop, and paused at a stoplight that was on flashing-yellow; you know, like a yield, or slow down and take caution thing. It's not a stop nor is it about to turn red, hence the flashing. One car -the left lane leader- had been sitting there waiting for the red for as long as we'd been approaching the light, and as we drove away, we watched as he sat. Block by block we drove, and still he sat. When we could see him no more, T and I looked at each other; no words were necessary. Good grief, people. If high school Driver's Ed goes the way of Typing -perhaps two of the three most valuable courses I took in high schools- we as a country are in trouble.

Y'all should see the pickled cauliflower just curing away on my counter. I loooove this recipe. Mmm mmm! Tonight we're going to grill the fixings for fajitas, and I'm going to make a corn salsa, some guac, margaritas and a spiced plum cobbler for dessert. This recipe is from my friend, Suzanne, and it recently won a Community Pick nod on Food 52. Our friend, Bevi, has made it about ten times since Suzanne posted it last month, so I am way overdue. It sounds perfect for this evening!

Hope you're all having a lovely Labor Day weekend, if you're Stateside, or a lovely one in general if you're elsewhere. Adios!

Feel like I reinvented the wheel

Truly, I do. I made a basil-pecan pesto that was so good I thought I'd cry. I wanted to cry. Tom considered two tears. We licked the food processor bowl clean, and thus, I have no photo for you. But I bought a ludicrous amount of basil today (because I'm that gal who can't grow it; I do have a mostly sunless yard, which is definitely my [valid] defense) so plan to make a huge batch tomorrow and will then post my exact proportions in case you're interested. Which you should be. Like SO intrigued, stalking my recipes-page interested. It's that good.

Presently, we are grilling a pizza, and I am giving thanks that this day is done. It was not the easiest, but probably that is no surprise at this point. We are literally hanging by our thumbs until next Tuesday. And you know what, I know that's part of it, this raising children, raising a family. The tough times can really blow, but often I believe (hope?) that they're where the intrafamilial lines of growth and connection are solidified and made even more substantial. Sometimes I get so mired in the moment. I get scared, like "really? can I do this for one more day?" But then I step back a bit and think, "Em, that's what life is all about." It's about the gems in the moments, in the days, the weeks; it's picking out and appreciating those crystallizations of good and happy and holding them in higher esteem than their lesser molecules.

Yesterday, I spent a while with a friend of mine, a stay-at-home-mom I love and admire and respect; for that and so much more. I truly enjoy being her friend, I feel happy about it each time I see her. And she and I yesterday, we were like "this effing sucks." And it really does sometimes. And we're dying for school to start. And so many other women are waxing rhapsodic about the glory of summer and how fabulous it is to have no schedule and just hang with their kids. And my friend and I wonder, guiltily, about what we are doing wrong. WHAT are we missing? Are we missing a thing?

And that's the rub. We aren't missing a damn thing. As her oldest daughter climbed into her lap, and my boys smothered me with kisses and "watch me," I was reminded that we are just doing what we can. We are there. All the time. I myself find it easier to be totally frank about how hard this all is, how much of our own selves are sometimes/often subsumed by this hat of motherhood. But I get that others are too terrified to admit that OR they're just truly happy in their maternal role. And again, that's what life is really about.

Being true to yourself, as best you can. Whether that makes others comforted or uncomfortable, gains or loses you popularity or respect, your life is your own. And if you're as true to you and it as you can be, then hat's off. And if you're feeling like my friend and I are a lot these days, good luck until your first day, whenever that may be.