A hard day

Oh, friends. Some days are just so hard. 

I awoke before 5 this morning, nudged from a deep, assisted sleep by a wet little nose pecking hungrily into my hand. It was Nutmeg, settling in a good deal earlier than usual for our morning snuggle. He curled atop my chest, tucked his head under my chin and his body in the crook of my arm, and started purring like a smooth, strong v6. 

Often, our bed snuggles are times I treasure- quiet and sweet and warm. But it was hard for me to get to sleep last night and I needed more than my loving feline allowed.

Finally, I creaked downstairs to feed him and on my way back up heard Oliver talking some gibberish. I couldn't tell if it was a nightmare or just the early signs of wakefulness, but I peeked in and found him staring straight at me. It was 5:30, and I knew last night's sleep was gone with the wind.

We laid in Ol's cozy little bed for nearly an hour, arms wrapped around one another, whispering and not.

"What are you thinking about, Mama?"

"Oh, I am thinking about the house Daddy and I saw yesterday."

A simple answer for my little boy. What I was really thinking was about how hard it is to house-hunt in the ludicrously expensive/over-priced DC market. Thinking about how much I love our current home and how long it took us to find it. Thinking how on top of one another we feel as the boys grow but do not stop running. Thinking about how sad I'd be to leave this place but also how exciting it would be to do just that. Thinking about how lucky I feel that we can consider doing so.

My stomach churned, gurgling and talking to us.

"Are you hungry, Mama? I am!"

I wasn't. Just nervous. Tired. Scared to admit how very much I was thinking about that house we saw yesterday. How I hope that it will become our new home.

"Let's go make cinnamon toast, ok, Ol?"
"Oh yay, my favorite."

As we descended the stairs, I thought about how my mom would soon wake. And how Dad would drive her to the surgery center for an operation to repair the arthritic growth that has eroded the tendon between her thumb and hand. They have to take another tendon from in her arm and pleat it in her thumb joint. She's been in such pain, but this surgery is supposed to be horrifically painful too. She is fine now, but I was worried. And I'm sorry she's been hurting and will continue to for several months.

I spent the morning thinking about Mom and the house. I tidied and did laundry. I couldn't eat a thing, which is wholly unlike me.

I thought it'd do me good to get out. So I went to the post office to mail a return package and then to the market. I'd been inside for all of four minutes, just enough to grab a bunch of beets and some raspberries, when the manager grasped his walkie-talkie and ordered every customer and employee to evacuate immediately. 

"Leave everything where it is, carts, food, everything and please exit the building immediately. Employees, go to the CVS parking lot next door."

Turns out the market had received a bomb threat. People, please. What is this world coming to? I'm not usually shaken by things like this, and it was well-managed, but seriously. 

To school and then back home where my oldest threw such a tantrum that I just lost it. Lost it. My shoulders shook and the tears came. They needed to, but their moment of entry surprised me, pouring forth before filter or will or "should" could step in. 

It happens sometimes, these breaks. The fissures just can't withstand the pressures pushing against them. Was the bomb threat the proverbial straw? The missed sleep? Worry? The argument? A tornado of emotions about a possible move?

Today was a bit of all those things, I suspect. Bits of dust and particulate matter spinning and spinning, accelerating and bam.

BBQ Shrimp, Y'all!

Do y'all remember that on the Day of The Sardine I also raved about the fresh Alabama shrimp I bought? They were gorgeous. Big beauties from the Gulf- best shrimp in America, hands down. 

You do not want to do anything with shrimp like that but let them shine in the brightest spotlight, and so I decided to make real New Orleans BBQ shrimp with them. Emeril's style.

Real BBQ shrimp have zero to do with barbecue sauce. Zero. And thank goodness. For while I love barbecue sauce as a condiment atop things like grilled chicken, I do not want to veil or disappear shrimp into it. 

Emeril's recipe first asks you to make a foundational sauce by stewing shrimp shells with onions, garlic, "Bayou Blast" seasoning, Worcestershire sauce, lemons, bay leaves, white wine, salt, pepper, and water. After a half-hour simmer, you strain that, reduce the liquid, add cream (Emeril calls for two cups of cream; I use one cup of cream and a half-cup of 2% milk; no one is the wiser; your arteries are all the better.), your reserved shrimp, and just a bit later, butter.

The shrimp are tender and full of flavor, the sauce is lick-your-lips-sigh-and-close-your-eyes divine. You MUST have freshly toasted baguette on hand to sop up all excess. 

BBQ shrimp isn't a daily dish, nor should it be. It's a fantastically rich, delicious treat, and a great way to pay tribute to top-quality shrimp. 

Bon appétit, y'all!

Fishy Friday

This has been a lovely week, y'all! I've worked hard and also rested, cooked a lot and well, read and written daily, put together a photo book from the holiday, and nearly finished my thank you notes.  

Do you write thank you notes? In my humble opinion, you most definitely should. It is not an art or formality that should be lost! 

Today, just before 1:30pm, I was talking to a a friend when my call waiting showed the school nurse on the other line.  From the moment Oliver sighed forlornly this morning and asked if I'd noticed how much his nose was running, I suspected he would later make his way to he nurse and ask to come home. 

Both the nurse and I are on to my boys. In her words, "they really go to great lengths to spend time with you." Um, #truth. So, she does not call unless the kids feel truly lousy, as Mr. O did by 1:30. 

Fortunately, he is the easiest, sweetest sick child on earth, and so I scurried to get him. "Bug, we have to go to the market, but it won't take long. Ok?" 

"Ok, mama." 

We made our way through produce and dairy, and ended up at the fish counter. Tina was working, and while she bagged my shrimp (gorgeous ones fresh from Alabama!), Ol studied the fish. 

"Mama, is that a sardine?"

"It sure is, Bug. How'd you know?" 

"I just know what they look like, so I thought that might be one. Will you get me two shrimp and one sardine? I like shrimp, and I like to try new things, and I would like to try a sardine."

I'm doing a rapid calculus in my head: aren't sardines awfully oily? And is that the best choice for a kid with a crappy cold? But isn't it great that he wants to try it?!

"Sure, Bug!" And Tina chimes in with, "Do you want me to remove its head and guts?" 

Ol replies, "Mama, can I cut his head off at home, and study his eyes and dissect him? And then you can cook him for me?" 

Tina and I glance at each other, and I say sure and she tells him to pick the best one, and we walk to the checkout line, Ol holding his packaged sardine proudly in hand.

He hands it to the woman at the register and tells her the plan. She appears excited and puts his sardine in a little bag, just for him. The she asks, "Would you like some plastic gloves too?"

Ol beams beatifically and accepts three. 

Once home, he dons his apron, and I set him up at the plastic-placemat-covered table with a cutting board, sharp knife, bowl of water and the sardine.

He is extremely excited. With great care, he slices into the "neck" area, and says, "This sardine has thick skin. Look mama, blood."

The blood doesn't bother me, but damn that sardine is pungent, and the more he cuts, the more oozes out and the fragrance intensifies. 

He retrieves the eyes, spine, ribs and a fin. He studies the skull and says, "I don't think this sardine had a very big brain." 

Probably not. 

He soaks the bones and fin and shiny skin in the water and uses an old toothbrush to scrub the spine. He is so delicate, and I don't help him once. Not a single time. 

"Mama, can I keep his head? And also the bones and skin? But I don't think we should cook this sardine. Next time I'll get one just to try." 

We carefully slide his keepsakes into a ziploc and tuck it away in the freezer. And I smiled on my little bug, who never asks for the spotlight or much at all really, and I thought, "My how you're growing, and how lucky am I!"