Shout-out to my soup

On Monday, the day of Nanny's funeral, I received a lovely note from a Food 52 friend: she let me know that my Tuscan Bread Soup had been chosen by Jenny as the feature of her Weeknights With Jenny column. This is the second time Jenny has highlighted one of my recipes, and I'm very flattered. It seemed fitting, in a lovely way, that if something I cook was to be honored, it was done so on a day that I was honoring Nanny. So, thank you, to Jenny and to all who wrote such nice notes. You have no idea how especially much those kindnesses meant to me on Monday.

Oliver has had a bad fever all day and felt like the pits. True to form, he said earlier, "I need to frow up", went to the toilet, grasped the sides and threw up three times. He will be such a champ at college parties, for the love. It's weird how some kids are pukers and others aren't. Jack has thrown up twice, TWICE, in his entire 7.25 years, while for Ol, upchucking is a common, could it be almost-monthly?, event. At least it doesn't phase him. Today I had to pressure him to brush his teeth afterwards. Blech.

Tom's in NY, and I managed to find a sitter for two hours today (now!) and three tomorrow. I am infinitely grateful because tired does not even begin to describe how I feel right now, so I am happy to be in bed, starting to catch up on things missed and late, and to tend to myself a little bit. I intend to make myself a good dinner tonight, something hearty and comforting and good, savor a glass of good wine and call it a day on the early side.

Back to it

Friends, I do believe you can imagine how dismayed I was yesterday when I called T and Ol from Dallas (en route home) to find that Oliver had come down with a fever and thus wouldn't be going to school today. When Jack and I finally walked in our front door last night (after the most ridiculous cab ride home from the airport during which the driver took us the wrong way twice) at 9p, T gently and apologetically reminded me that he was leaving town today, returning Saturday. The dismay reached a critical point that I'd call WTF depressed. I took a whole Ambien and slept in the basement.

A girl's gotta do...

The house is a wreck, and it was all I could do to cobble together a bag lunch for Jack to take on his field trip today. Oliver is watching TV (I think there will be a lot of that today), and I'm sucking coffee like it's my life-source. That's all I've got for you right now. Don't even get me started on House Repubs.

Heading home

I am so fucking tired. Like deeply,emotionally tired. The kind of tired sleep only gives you a break from but doesn't ameliorate. Tired suffused with sadness and being strong. Tired derived from saying goodbye to Nanny and her home, a home that felt like my own. Mom, Jack and I went over there this morning. It was quiet and empty, and Nanny's smile couldn't greet me. I looked through all her pots and pans, bakers and utensils. While holding each, I remembered with such clarity what Nanny made in each: the oval roaster in which she cooked briskets and roasts; the rounded corner pan in which she made her lemon-lime refrigerator sheet cake; angel food and muffin tins; mixing bowls; ancient tin forks and spoons. Here's the Saltines box I mentioned recently. I'm secretly hoping no one else wants it, because I'd love to have it for my own.

When we got home to finish packing up, I realized I couldn't find my wedding rings. Ten minutes into what seemed like a fruitless search, I realized I was sobbing; the thought of losing something else so special tipped me over the wall of strength I've stood on this past week, and I just couldn't deal with anything else. I combed through last night's shrimp shells (not lovely), all the garbage cans and on and on. Mom finally found them on a windowsill. Now I'm even more tired. And I can't fathom these plane rides home. Send me some good vibes, friends.