Today was a clammy sort of late winter day. Rain and spits of snow under a curtain of grey. The roof leaked into the playroom and made a pool of rust under the metal tray full of matchbox cars. We read far more chapters of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory than I intended.
For lunch we turned on the broiler and toasted pita breads, spread butter on their hot, golden tops and cut them into garlic powder dusted wedges. They were so cozy and delicious going down that I had to repeat four or five times before all the littles were satisfied. I spent my nap-time quiet hour reading poetry instead of writing my own, looking for little nuggets of beauty or humor that other writers found in February.
I sometimes need to just stick my head up there in the clouds and feast on cotton candy in order to have the fodder to continue. Ruth Stone, Jane Kenyon, Rumi, Mary Oliver and the like are good February nap companions. I am just nudging off the barest tickle of a cough which sometimes catches in my chest halfway between a choke and a laugh, so I keep rationing off another raw clove of firey garlic for a secret cure, drinking tall sparkling glasses of water and believing I am to strong to be brought down. Yesterday I had a long nap, and today I had a long poetizing. Little cures.
Am off to kitchen to make a warm loaf of oat zucchini bread and put on make-up for a night out with A. We're off for a snug, weekend beginner alone together. The babysitter gets to wipe the noses and dole out the mac and cheese and I plan to order a de-caf espresso and drink it in long slow sips after dinner.
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