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. 

Excitement with a tinge of trepidation

Fuuuuuccccckkkkk.

The end is barreling down on us: just a day and change to go. I can't tell if I'm glad or terrified by that, but come it quickly will so I guess I best just go with it.

Let's be honest, people. Terrified is tipping the scales right now. Cue the wine pour.

The children are vacillating between angelic loves and rabid loons. Tics I'd thought were long gone are making irritating resurgences. The "heh-heh-heh" constant cough from Ol? Making me batshit crazy because it is SO fake and omnipresent. Also, he has a bizarre chafing on the side of his face in which the first four of his cavities were filled. Swear to god, I have zero tolerance for a latex allergy.

As an aside, did y'all know that when cats drink from a bowl, they take mini-breaks with their tongues? It's like lick-lick-lick-fake lick and repeat. 

I'm taking breaths where I can. Today that meant a 6-mile run in drizzling rain as well as crafting multiple raffia bows and using Stickles pretty glitter to make Thank You tags that much more special. 

A) My legs are like, "Shit, girl. Too far." But really, Some Nights and, then, Raise Your Glass (Fun./Pink) came on, and I was like, "Shit legs, this playlist is the bomb." And there you have it. Plus, I did register for that damn race, so I best get my training on.

B) Raffia bows. Raffia is an underrated craft material. It looks like something homespun from natural fibers in a fantastic shabby chic way. And then. You can stretch it to a thin, papyrus width which makes it both infinitely more elegant and fun AND all the more homespun and natural. #winning

C) Stickles. One of my top three favorite Paper Source finds. Wanna bedazzle any paper good with a bit of flair? Grab a squirt bottle of Stickles and dot away. It's upscale glitter glue y'all, and boy is it fun. A glittery golden dot at the top point of a stamped star? Fabulous! I needed those shiny little stars today.

In spite of escapist running and crafting fun though, the lows, regressive behavior, tics and generalized mayhem right now are just fucking exhausting. Tears spurt forth randomly as if I've moved into a convent of pubescent gals. I can say that because I was one. And I know.

Tonight, after many hours of loving bonding (by which I mean SO MUCH togetherness), Oliver's face crumbled, the tears poured forth as if that kid pulled his finger from the damn dike, and he begged me to "get my kitchen back." The one Santa brought three years ago and had not been played with in two. The one we sold for $50 and replaced with a pimped out, made-for-small-spaces "office" because Oliver said, "I have work to do!" 

Meanwhile, Lunatic the Elder, having spent hours waxing rhapsodic about the magical and singular experience of 3rd grade, proceeded to fall apart in a spiral of angst + ennui. "I'm OVER IT, Mom. I'm over 3rd grade." 

I attempted to make him a nice dinner, but after freaking out over black beans and a pluot, it became clear that sleep was the only solution.

Also, wine.

Scab face attempted to sneak out of bed under the guise of being "unable to cool off." He was just fishing for me to say, "Get naked, honey." So, I did. I just said, "Take your darn underpants off if that's what you want, man." 

And then I seared the heck out of some filets while masterfully keeping the insides nearly walking for T and much less so for me. And making a freaking awesome brown butter succotash'ish thingy for our side and messaging wildly with writer friends.

Cheers!

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!