Home, and how I really knew it

From first leg to my front door, it took me nearly twelve hours to get home yesterday. Solo travel is so much easier than travel with kids, but nonetheless, twelve hours is a long darn time. Both flights were delayed, and other than worrying about the state of the once-frozen tamales in my suitcase, I most wanted to get home before the boys went to bed. No such luck, but that didn't stop me from immediately heading into their rooms to smother them with kisses. Poor T was nearly catatonic with fatigue, so I let him be as he watched SNL on the couch. I set out the arrowhead and petrified wood I'd found and brought the boys, the old hand-forged screw and some beautiful rocks too. I laughed when I saw the green and orange plastic ninjas I'd bought in Santa Fe; were those made specifically for Jack and Ol? I put on a load of wash and then took a good look around the house. It.was.a.warzone. You have NEVER seen so much child detritus on every surface throughout a home. No Legos remained in their colorful bins, snips and slivers of construction paper made a mosaic of the basement floor and toy swords/light sabers/weapons of all sorts hung across every surface on which I might have considered sitting.

The submarine box was full of periscopes and markers, perler beads made walking a painful feat, and mail and empty bags blanketed one kitchen counter. T noticed my dismayed expression, apologized and said, "Something had to give."

I understood. I still do, but jeez. It's not clear that anyone ate any of the vegetables I'd chopped and labeled. What is up with dads and dispensing veggies? At least all the laundry I'd left behind was folded neatly.

I really knew I was home when Ol climbed into bed with us in the middle of the night because of a nightmare and when, a couple hours later, Nutmeg jumped in too. He was all a'purr between him and Ol, I was knee-deep in snuggles, but four in a bed is a lot. Sleeping alone and on your own schedule is bliss.

I was just about to close my eyes, finally, when Oliver rustled slightly and then sounded as if he were going to throw up. "Bug, bug," I called, "roll over!!" (He was on his back.) He only considered moving, so I forced him over and shook him awake.

"Are you OK, honey?"

"I don't feel good. I was having the gwossest dweam. Tyrannosaurus skeletons were hungwy and wanted dead worms, and they were gwoss."

I think recounting his dream served as a remedy for then we laughed and hugged and caught up. Then to Jack's room for more of all that, then the little gifts, breakfast, school and so forth.

New Mexico was so interesting and relaxing, but it's always good to get home too. I feel so lucky for such a cool experience, even if it means I've spent much of today cleaning the man-dirtiness that abounds.

Off again

By the time some of you read this, I'll be in New Mexico. After landing in Santa Fe tomorrow morning, I'll drive three hours out of town to a remote ranch where cell reception is spotty and a major grocery store nowhere near. My companions will be two women, one of whom I've never met in person and could recognize much more easily by voice than appearance. No, I'm not joining a cult.

Rather my writing group has been planning a retreat, and tomorrow it begins. Yee-howdy!

You might recall that just after 2013 rolled in, I started taking an online food writing class. We met there, drawn together by the deceptively simple act of writing about food. I've talked about these women before: one is a Louisiana gal who runs her own business; another -the NM resident- is a landscape artist, journalist, photographer and food historian extraordinaire; and the third is a New Englander who's taught writing and cooking and is quite an artist. Though not all of my online acquaintances have turned out to be friends, these women really have, and I am so eager to spend time together out yonder.

At the very least, we'll surely eat well.

I have felt oddly anxious about leaving. My departure at such a busy time of year seems ill-timed in a way. The logistics of child care alone would make your head spin, though my chart of who goes where with whom and when does beg the question of whether a room full of mothers planning for a short, solo vacation could solve world peace if given ten minutes.

Part of me feels that I don't deserve the decadence of five days away. I mean, this is a "working retreat" but it's not a formal conference or a business trip. I'm spending money versus making it, if you know what I mean.

Part of me will always worry about all the possible needs I won't be able to meet by virtue of being away; hell, I'm even fretting about our sweet fish although T seems to have taken such a liking to them that he regularly changes their water with a hand-pump siphon! Do I fear that no one will tend my flock as well or like as I do? Or that any differential won't actually make a hill of beans difference (in which case, I should probably take a load off)? Perhaps I know that if something happened while I was away, I'd never forgive myself. Then again, I'd never forgive myself if anything happened on my watch either. Sometimes moms just can't win.

It's curious that it gets harder to leave instead of the opposite. I'd have thought that as the kids aged, I'd worry less. But the stakes feel higher in some ways: homework starts to matter; discipline and rules are more important in some ways but burgeoning independence means that following those rules isn't as sure a bet as it once was; are they eating well? sleeping enough?... We have such a routine going. It's not always pleasant but it works for us, and I know what's being covered and taken care of. That said, we've all got to learn this at some point. I want them to grow, take responsibility for themselves, have these times with Tom. And so leave I will and must, even if my heart feels a twinge of 'ugh.'

In any case, I am thrilled to have this opportunity and a family who supports me in taking it. I cannot wait to hang out, hike, cook and write with these women with whom I've talked every couple weeks since our class ended eighteen'ish months ago. We have shared myriad works of depth, honesty, private memory and hilarity, with a frequency I suspect is pretty rare. Life tends to get in the way unless you carve out dedicated time.

I'm also excited to briefly sate my wanderlust. The last time I was in the southwest, I was thirteen and on a family trip. I had just recovered from a serious case of encephalitis, but we climbed the Grand Canyon, went to Taos and did other southwesty things that now escape me. My clearest recollections involve my parents' primary obsessions (as they seemed to me then): sopapillas with honey at every opportunity (mom); red rock formations (I thought I'd die if I saw another one); and huevos rancheros (dad). Dad also bought a Navajo poncho that he insisted on wearing daily once we returned home. It looked vaguely odd atop his physician scrubs, and in southern Louisiana, he must have been hot as hell though he'd never have admitted it. Hilarious.

I suspect this trip will sear exceedingly different memories into my mind, once I can get over the hump of actually leaving.

Such a splendid Sunday

The gramps picked Jack and Ol up at 10 this morning and headed off to the Nationals' last home game of regular season. The boys were dressed in the "official Nats uniforms" they got at Nats camp this past summer and the plan was to go early in the hopes of getting an autograph voucher. They missed that but romped delightedly on the stadium playground for hours and ate a wide array of ballpark food. So much in fact that pretty much as soon as Jack stepped in tonight, just after 6p, he threw up everywhere. Horrid, stinky piles of what looked like upchucked chili. Maternal adrenaline is a good thing because that was disgusting. After the first hurl -on our bedroom floor- he managed to get his pants off. Then, rolling around the carpeted hall, moaning about how he would NEVER eat junk food again unless it was a holiday, he booted for the second time. Between that one and finally taking his shirt off and making it to the toilet, he asserted that birthdays do not count as holidays, a declaration I found baffling.

Poor kid. I drew him a hot bath and got him some seltzer and a couple Tums. When I asked him what he'd eaten he replied, "two hot dogs, Dippin Dots, cotton candy, Orange Crush..." It was revolting, but I dare say he's learned his lesson. He actually learned it once before, during his 100th-day-of-school celebration when he was three. He ate about 400 chocolate chips. When I picked him he said he felt awful and furious and would never overeat dessert again. He hasn't even come close, until today, which I think was really just way too much crap in way too short a time. Like I said, I think he's learned.

In the meantime, I went to the farmers market and then spent several hours cooking and having a solo dance party/concert as T had to work. It was great. I made a double batch of spiced rhubarb-apple butter and some roasted tomato jam, froze a bunch of fresh raspberries and shelled a ton of borlotti beans. I can never get over just how pretty they are.

Peach cobbler has been calling my name, and since I had to use up a half-dozen from last week's market, I decided to get right to it. That'd make a fine dessert for dinner. We had some King salmon I needed to use, and I'd bought some gorgeous okra and arugula this morning too. An embarrassment of riches, really. And the foundation for quite a fine meal.

I love grilled okra, especially when you've got a steel bin full of good wood chips adding a bit of smokey flavor to the chopped pods. I'd tossed these with olive oil, garlic, red pepper flakes, lemon juice and salt, and then later, T made a drizzling oil spiked with chili powder and champagne vinegar that was awfully nice.

I oven-roasted the salmon but first spread some fresh rhubarb-apple butter on top as salmon and apples go so very well together. Sa.tis.fying!