Sunday, September 28, 2014
It pains my sister to make this drink for me.
She's a real drinker - knows her alcohol, knows what to mix with what. She does NOT stock Oreos in her bar.
Yet, with all the love a big sister can blend in with Kahlúa and ice cream, she makes me this every year during Siblings' Weekend. She laughs at me, but she makes it.
I love you, sister.
This drink is a memory I will always treasure.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
A week later than planned, demolition of the kitchen is scheduled for Monday. That puts me in decision-making mode. We need to choose light and plumbing fixtures. We need to pick out tile for the entryway. We need to decide whether or not to buy new appliances. And I need to choose a wall color. Did you notice the shift in pronouns at the end of that list? I’m not complaining, just noting that the choice of color falls to me. Truthfully, I want it. I finally shared the color decision last year when I gave in to the girls to help them deal with the idea of changing the color of the house – and have regretted it. I don’t love the color of our house. I don’t hate it, but I don’t love it. And it’s hard not to be annoyed with them for that. It was my choice, I can’t blame them, but hey, I’m human, and sometimes I do.
Choice can be stressful. Here’s how I approach it. I delve deep into the endless field of choices, wade through, pushing some aside, collecting others for careful consideration, then I see one thing and forget all of my rational sorting and go with it.
Here is the field, provided by Benjamin Moore. I quickly pushed aside all the blues and reds and browns; weighed the benefits of a neutral gray and then grabbed a bright yellow-orange card. I kept looking, but that card stayed in my hand. I’ve gone through the pretext of a sample pint, which I have dutifully swatched on the wall, with an alternate, softer tone for comparison. Cute. My choice was made as soon as the paint card leapt out at me.
Friday, July 18, 2014
I walked up to the sink the other day to wash dishes and instead was washed with childhood memories. It was the tomatoes on the windowsill. Dad always put tomatoes on the sill above the sink to finish ripening. I had unconsciously done the same thing, not thinking of my Dad when I put them there, but surrounded by him at that moment of realization.
The best part of that moment was, instead of crying because I miss him so much, I smiled because he gave me so much. Fresh tomatoes ripening on a windowsill. Who could ask for a better memory on a July afternoon? A memory I can truly still savor.