It’s still snowing on top of eight fresh inches of dusty powder. The only sounds are from the yips of elated skiers and boarders, or the carving of their boards as they pass by. I’ve got all my layers on and my face is covered. Will is in a class. Jenny is appropriately bundled and capable enough to cruise behind me without my having to frequently check over my shoulder to see if she needs an assist.
This is the closest I get to unencumbered, but this is better because I’m having fun with my kids. I’m not cooking for them, or folding their clothes or reminding them of their work lists for learning or refereeing disagreements.
We are in our element.
As my skis glide through wide, arcing turns, my lungs expand with deep breaths. Each completed run acts like an eraser on the chalkboards in my brain. As each chalkboard is wiped clean of to-do lists or my continual monologue of what I should be improving or doing differently, my mood improves.
When I’m not laughing on the chair with Jenny, I’m playing tag with her on a run. In the lodge, we can be seen giggling with Will while we devour spicy tacos and deep bowls of chunky chili. Will eagerly tells us of the jumps he finessed and the moguls he annihilated. Jenny and I assure him that he’s not missing anything by not skiing with us, other than a game of tag and squeals of laughter on the chair. Continue reading →
My grandma called it goulache (goo-lah-key). She didn’t use paprika like they do in a genuine Hungarian Goulash. My version is more of a whatever’s-in-the-kitchen-pantry variety. It’s a take on spaghetti sauce only the vegies are chunkier and the sauce is wetter. I always make a big batch so as to have some to put in the freezer. It’s great to have extra on hand for ski days or those days when I’m not wanting to go to the store, which happens to be just about every day.
I walk by this chair multiple times a day. I’ve swept the dust bunnies of cat hair away from the rolled paper legs. I’ve straightened the legs after one of us has cut the corner too tight and clipped the edge of the chair on our way to the kitchen. Each time I walk by, I wonder what it might be like to be light enough to sit down on this delicate chair.
“Mom, will you help me make a bunch of paper airplanes? I’m making an Army of Love.” Jenny showed me how to fold the paper, told me the color order and where the gas tank went, and we made 13 paper jets. As we were folding and coloring and giggling and talking of paper cuts, I asked her how she came up with the idea. “I dunno,” she said. “It’s a good idea. I think they should fly over the world dropping candy hearts, like little love bombs.”
I want to smell the rosemary. I want to remove the stopper from the ornate bottle and smell the
I can’t deliver a swift ass-kicking to Mubarak, save all those children and spread a blanket of calm and peace over Egypt.
His Wranglers and Tony Lamas were broken in to that soft, but not too-distressed phase. He walked with a purpose – chest puffed out, arms swinging, head held high.
I’ve been writing here for over a year. Jen and Will know what the blog is about. Will keeps asking for permission to read the whole blog. He’s not ready for that.
