Tired, thanks for great teachers, odd

Tired. Ordered take-out. End of story. 

In other news, I wish to applaud my husband who is diligently and lovingly crafting an oversized sheriff badge from foam core right now. Why on god's green earth is he doing that? you might be wondering.

Well, for starters, I asked him to.
Second, he's seen me taking care of all end-of-year to-dos with total gusto and knows he needs to participate.
Thirdly, he's had the MOST ANNOYING cough for four days and owes me for tolerating it.  
Lastly, and most importantly, because it's a gift for one of the boys' greatest teachers.

Coach Gold and Jack have been tight as a good seal on a jam jar since Jack started PK five years ago. I suspect Coach Gold knew my dear J was not an athletic rock star and also loved Jack's obsession (at that time) with all things police. At that point, a politico's child was at school with J and so the secret service were on campus all of the time every day. 

Jack was thrilled by this and took to wearing mirrored spy glasses and police gear to school. Because school is awesome and honors children for just who they are, this was kosher until Jack started directing his classmates around with "10-4, over and out" instructions and walking into the traffic lane from the carpool lane when he was unable to break focus on the agents at the perimeter.

Anyway, Coach Gold started calling Jack "Sheriff," and when Ol started two years ago, Coach Gold nicknamed him "Deputy."

So tonight, we are making a large badge as a little symbol of our family love for Coach Gold. 

Can I tell y'all something that I find odd? At least once a week, the phone rings, and caller ID shows an unfamiliar number. It's not a telemarketer or any of their ilk, so I usually pick up. Invariably, it is a stranger calling with Nutmeg in his (it's usually a man) arms.

"I have a Nutmeg here. Very sweet cat. Is he supposed to be out here? On the sidewalk?"

People, Nutmeg is not a child. He is a cat. Though I am exceedingly grateful for this sincere concern about a roaming cat, do cats not, in fact, roam? I'm vexed. Are there no city cats who get to go outside? Yes, I used to let Nutmeg play outside whilst leashed to a stake. But it was just so depressing to watch his innate drives be foiled again and again because of rope length. 

He always comes home, he is never lost, he has never been hurt. He is obviously loved and well cared for. He wears a collar with our number on it (clearly). But man are strangers concerned. 

Silliness and the S-cubed dinner

Such a nice Saturday.

Boys up at 6, overhearing Nutmeg puke, realizing that Percy must have eaten said puke because I couldn't find it anywhere, finishing Jurassic Park shocked that Oliver was completely unfazed by any of it, going to Staples for emergency Sharpies and pens, eating lunch out with the cuties and then...

my in-laws picked them up to take them somewhere fun and keep them overnight. Shut the front door. Right?! Roughly twenty hours by myself.

Admission: now that it's been seven, I kinda miss those bozos. I mean really, just last week we had this conversation in the car:

J: "My butt is named Dave, penis is Roger."

Me, attempting to remain serious: "How interesting. What prompted this naming?"

Oliver: "My penis is named Long Bamboo."

Me: I was unable to remain serious.

Anyway, point is, they can be hilarious.

But, they left, I gardened, went to the gym, went to the market, did some laundry, read, yada. 

After an hour spent with Ann Patchett in This Is the Story of a Happy Marriage (great book of essays, y'all), I decided to make a beautiful dinner for one. Shrimp, sumac, sorrel sauce. Gorgeous.

seared sumac shrimp in sorrel sauce

People, seriously. Is that not stunning?! And so flipping sibilant! Seared sumac shrimp in sorrel sauce. Wha?? Love it!

Sorrel is not an ingredient that goes with just anything. It's a leafy green with an outrageous tang. The sort that'll make you pucker up and say "oo-wee" when you recover. But I love it, and it's beautiful, and it likes cream and shallots and shrimp and all that jazz.

I had a bit of fun with this since I had all the time in the world. After peeling the shrimp, I put the shells in a small saucepan with some white wine, garlic, salt and a chile de arbol. After a few minutes, I strained that, let it cool to room temp and then stirred in some shallots, butter and cream (which I'd later warm just until the butter melted and then toss with the shrimp).  

In a separate pan, I seared the shrimp that I'd marinated with oil, lemon zest, sumac, garlic and shallots. Once they'd cooked, alone and then in the cream, I strained them out and blended the shrimpy cream with the fresh sorrel. The sauce has a marvelous zip and a ridonkulously great color, don't you think?

I might also have had a wild solo dance party during which my pets looked at me askance. Whatever, they can't talk!

Storms and memories

I'm on my couch, legs out long across it, Percy snoring at my knees. The back door is open, and I've propped the screen door ajar in case Nutmeg wants to come back in. Through a wall of windows, I see my neighbor's dogwood leaning over the corner of my deck luxuriously. It is pregnant with blooms and is most welcome.

There is a rustling in the air, a fuzzy sound that carries with it a hint of breeze. The leaves of my jalapeño plant are waving ever so slightly while the cooked-noodle arms of the next-door willow tremble on a different current. 

Though the skies are the gray blues and whites of dusk, the thinnest veil of rain started staining the deck a darker hue. Now, it's stopped, and the wood looks splotchy. Faintly, far, far in the distance, thunder rumbles inconsistently. 

I hope it comes our way. I hope the skies open and release their watery savings. I hope the thunder roars until it's hoarse. I hope the lightning strikes again and again and again, like so many exclamation points.

The ricotta on the stove hisses just a bit, reminding me that it's almost past time to remove the pot from the heat below it. I take leave from Percy and hurry to run a knife around the rim where cheese meets steel, loosing the curds, before putting things on a back burner to rest and come together. 

I wish I'd made it earlier, so that I could stir some into hot pasta with fresh sorrel and a grate of nutmeg. That's a dish that wouldn't excite Tom, and since he's in Boston, now's the time. Tomorrow. The kids and I watched Jurassic Park (well, Jack played Stack the States and Operation Math; bless his heart.), and I made them ice cream sundaes, so the ricotta had to wait. 

Earlier, I saw two toddlers in a doublewide stroller. They watched, mouths agape, eyes wide, at some construction being done on Mass Ave. Behind them, a caregiver waited patiently. How many times did I take my boys to watch dump trucks and dozers and cranes? How many times did I glance around furtively before letting them climb atop the giant bucket of a parked digger?

I smiled, and drove on, heading to school to take pictures for J's class. End-of-year headshots, for a "look how much they've grown" perspective. I arrived a bit early, during math, and waited happily on the sidelines.

Twenty-two kids sat on the rug staring up at one of their teachers as she, a million months pregnant and amazing, made math come alive. Hands shot up, guesses were proffered, the differences between a prism and pyramid made simply clear. 

One girl pulled her mane of hair into a ponytail, wrapping it with a band in a practiced way. When did she learn to do that? 'Vertices' and 'congruent' and 'pentagonal' flew confidently from the kids' mouths. When did they master this sort of language? Weren't these children just in doublewides staring at construction sites and zoo animals as doting adults pushed and paused and explained?

J turned around briefly and gave me a smile. "I love you," I knew he was thinking. "I love you, too," I thought back. "When did you get so big?" 

His neck is starting to slope into young-man shoulders, his legs are sturdy and dense even though he is so slender. It's as if the baby vanishes from the outside in, and these new solid-state limbs confirm my suspicion that J is a tot no more. In any way.

It's dark outside now, and the storm I'd hoped for remains nothing but a whisper in the wind. I need to drain the ricotta and eat some dinner and get to bed. And I will. But I'll keep listening, should the skies part, and attempting to sear into my brain memories of the boys, as they were and are.