This is not my beautiful refrigerator.
|Also not my moon. The moon is not full tonight. But it did sort of look like this at dusk.|
(moon from here.)
Trudge is a word I like for its sound. If it weren't so onomatopoetic I would wish it meant something else to fit my enthusiasm.
In the afternoon, I went out to do an hour's worth of erranding that took two hours, when I returned home the kids were out stalking around the house with Nerf weapons and their favorite college-aged x-babysitter. When I finally exhorted them to come in to finish the refrigerator project, Z's hands were bright red with cold, O was happy in his gym shorts, and the moon glowed with a huge orange penumbra.
Overall the day was a moderate success in the slow down project. Tea was made, children were conversed with, gifts were puttered into place, thank you notes were posted, the cat was walked, I managed to only sort of weirdly lurk on social media.
Reading: I love this piece about art making and found materials from today's NYT.
Writing: I read a lot of other people's (student) writing. I thought optimistically about writer's group.
Dinner: Pressure cooker project #2: pot roast with onions, garlic, mushrooms, tomatoes, and carrots over mashed potatoes.
(Nancy wished for yesterday's white bean pasta sauce recipe. It was sort of like this, quantities liberally interpreted. I think mine had more garlic, more basil, and more beans. I mashed the beans with a potato masher. In the absence of fresh tomato, I used the dregs of some bruschetta sauce that was in the fridge to top it off, along with parm.)
Soundtrack: Mozart piano concertos, and stuff.
Random thing: Perusing the Best of 2014 stuff in the Times, I learned about Debbie Tucker Green's Generations, which is a play about AIDS across three-generations of a South African family framed as an argument about learning to cook. I really want to get my hands on this script because it completely gibes with a writing exercise I have students do about argument and subtext.