25 July 2011

eat a shortbread cookie and croon

I have a problem.

It's an American problem.  It's a woman problem.  It's a typical problem.
This is me being, in a word, unoriginal.

I have too much stuff. 

Make this this week. Bring me a piece.

Mine usually aren't quite this pretty, but I bet they taste better....                                                                                                   (I didn't take a picture of my cherry pie from this weekend, and yes, I'm regretting it)

I have recently written about my literary love affair with cherries.  Oh, lady macbeth, how do you make me delightfully somber.

But, let's be honest, we don't pit all the cherries for fun.  Really, we don't.  We pit them for a reason, and here it is mostly for cherry pie.  And I've recently discovered that a cherry can take fruit salad from blah to luxury in a hot second, or we've put them in a salsa, or in a fruit compote to top pavlova or white chocolate almond torte.  Okay, so there are a ton of ways to eat cherries, but Pie remains our favorite (prepared) way. 

22 July 2011

all that bound up foolishness

I am in love. 
I am in love with both of these people, but specifically mine, the one on the right there. 

Instead of Yes Mam, he says Messam.
He calls his Pajamas either Conjangles or Conjamas, depending on whether he's having a sense of humor (Conjangles he knows is wrong, but likes to say it anyway).
He brings me my shoes wherever he finds them in the house.

15 July 2011

Equal and Opposite

At church each week, we take communion.  We don't process up for it, though.  We have those little plastic cups.  Not grape juice, thankfully, but real, cheap, red wine is found in them.  The cups come down the aisle in a stainless steel round thing designed specifically for plastic, miniature, communion cups to be passed down church aisles.

Our children are encouraged to partake of the supper with us.

So, along comes the bread first.  And each child in our family takes a piece of bread.  [Our pastor always leaves one giant piece on the tray - the one that he broke in half in front of everyone and every week Eason eyes it with breadlust.  And every week Paul says, just watching his eyes, "nope - just grab a normal one, Eason."  And Eason obeys. Sometimes cheerfully.  Sometimes the epitome of bedgrudgingly.]