This poem is much like my children in that I’m occasionally astonished such a thing came out of me. I scribbled this down – an intact stream of images – while at the hairdresser’s, sitting under a fan of hot lamps, individual chunks of hair wrapped in foil. I remember I was giggling at the time. Perhaps I should try and write more under the influence of aluminum. Enjoy your Sunday Supper.
Meatballs set to music in this video of Kid One cooking for an extra credit assignment.
What are the traditions – new or old – you do at this time every year? For me, the process of creating and carrying on traditions is one of the most challenging aspects of parenting for me, in part because my energies and interests don’t always match what the calendar and drugstore displays tell me it’s time to do. We’ve made some progress, though; click to hear how.
Awkwardly slow-dancing to “Nights in White Satin,” bar hopping on Bourbon Street, and really, really, irresponsible adult chaperones. Food often evokes memories, of course. But in this case the memories were so elusive, and the food item so rarely cooked, the recollection took months to surface. It’s all the power of potato salad.
The more things change, the more they stay the same. The boys are taller and drive themselves, but on their last day of high school, Kid One’s friends join us for dinner, as they have for a decade. It all started with the Potluck Slumber Party.
Keeping time with waffles, and the great bacon waffle experiment.
Children have their own ways of sharing, and critical thinking about jellybeans.