A celebratory day

Jack was beyond excited about turning eight this morning. I was up at 5:30, and I know he was too because I saw his light, but he was so good and stayed in his room until 6:30 during which time I decorated and put out his gifts. In addition to various Poké-presents, he received many cards, some books and the programming software he recently used at camp to make...wait for it...a Pokémon-themed video game. Bless his obsessive heart. I gave him The Westing Game, one of my favorite childhood books, and we have already had such a blast reading the first few chapters. Did you ever read it? Delightful! Wonderful! Even as adults you'd enjoy it. Oliver really rose to the occasion today and willingly took his Advil so as to be "healthy" for a full 18 holes of mini-golf, a diner lunch and a trip to Target where he continued to be so vexed by the choices that he was again unable to spend the gift card he received eons ago. He did manage TWO holes-in-one, to all of our complete surprise, and to eat only sugar-products for the entire day. Alas. They are the cutest brothers!

I made a lovely dinner inspired by my desire to use some of the NM chiles in the ristra my friend, Laura, sent me a while back. I cooked down in my Lodge, some onions and garlic, cumin, coriander, cinnamon, chicken broth and three rehydrated (and destemmed and largely deseeded) chiles; once that was all deliciously stewed, I pureed it in my blender and then poured it back over some cumin- and coriander-spiced turkey meatballs which I'd lightly pan-fried in ye olde Lodge and then nestled together. I covered, baked for 18, uncovered and cooked for two more, and we definitely enjoyed these!

Alongside, I had T grill some summer squash which I'd tossed with olive oil, cumin, coriander and lime juice; once done, I spooned in some lime-avocado crème fraîche sauce. Divine.

Homemade chocolate chip cookies for dessert, some more Westing Game, and now we're all crashed in bed, aching for sleep. Happy 4th, all!

Heat, storms, sick kids, hunkering down

For most of my elementary years, I attended an Episcopal day school. It was your standard parochial program really; uniforms, bi-weekly chapel visits, Christmas programs with Nativity scenes and so forth. I don't remember loving the services, though I always loved singing hymns, but the chapel was a beautiful and peaceful one. The aesthetic beauty wasn't always matched by comfort. The pews were rigid as could be, and the kneelers made your knees cry for mercy despite being 'padded.' And though nestled in southwest Louisiana, the chapel wasn't air conditioned. I always wondered if this was religiously-inspired; you know, don't get too comfortable lest you forget what was supposed to be the primary focal point: worship. On especially hot afternoons, the kind that made us feel as if we were melting into the pews, many of us would attempt to make our hands serve as effective fans. Father Northrup instructed us not to, averring that we would actually increase our body temperatures by expending the energy to wave. Perhaps this was true, but it didn't feel true. It felt like he was trying to get us to what he wanted us to do in a sneaky, tricky way.

In any case, that kind of heat is what DC has been enrobed in for the past week. It's thick heat, wet, oppressive, unrelenting, a lot to bear even for my Louisiana blood. I like to be hot, and I like what goes along with that including shorts, iced tea, tank tops and sunshine. But heat that sits on you like a weighty woolen shawl is a different sort of beast, and a trying one at that. It broke slightly last night with a brief rain and then again this afternoon with a fantastic storm that pummeled us hard for too short a time. It was black out there, the wind whipping branches and leaves by our windows, knocking my tomato plants down as if there were but wispy weeds. I love a good storm and feel energized by today's.

Ol has remained quite feverish, and I admit to being disappointed that his strep test came back negative, especially after the pediatrician seemed truly taken aback by the sight of his throat and tonsils. Gatorade and children's Ibuprofen remain the plan for now, and I am hoping for some sort of miraculous improvement before tomorrow as the 4th is Jack's birthday. Tomorrow my little one, my first born will be EIGHT. It's hard to believe!

Aprisauce

A tired gal (whose youngest son woke her up before 5 this morning; later, she had to pick him up early from camp because he had a 103° fever!) walks into her kitchen and spies a quart of pricey black velvet apricots with which she'd once planned to make jam. Shriveled and tired, jam fruit this was not! But to toss them seemed blasphemous, and so she figured, "Well, what's the worst that can happen if I pit and halve them and then toss them in a pot with sugar over medium heat?" You might suspect that catastrophe soon followed.

You would be wrong.

What came to pass was a glorious cross between compote and sauce, aprisauce if you will. It's smashing beyond belief, in both looks and taste. Tired gal took bite after bite, closing her eyes after each. Her brain, high on this delight, happily intoned, "What a find, what a thrill, please make this again."

Tired gal took one last bite before forcing herself to save some for later. She did not mention the concoction to her children and because she covered it with plastic wrap and put it on the bottom shelf of the fridge, it is as safe from her husband as the gold in Fort Knox.