There are some mornings where having something made ahead of time, something preferably more portable than a bowl of cereal, is advantageous. Sundays tend to be that way in our house. Often Chris or I need to be early to church, sometimes both of us, and if I don't have something made ahead of time, one or both of us forgets to eat breakfast. We usually remember an hour or so later, just before church is starting, and too late for there to be anything done about it.
I love Mexican food. Really, tex-mex, because I can't imagine what I'm getting, or making, in Nebraska, is terribly authentic. I can eat tacos for days in a row, (and have, for lunch, when we had a taco bar party and I vastly overestimated how much meat we'd need,) and I've found various tex-mex recipes to try out at home when I'm oddly not quite as ready to try them in a restaurant. This particular recipe came about due to my great love of tex-mex, and my need to use up a large pack of chicken thighs I'd found on sale. It might even be a bit more authentic than our usual fare.
In college, when I didn't really have a full kitchen to myself, but I was so very sick of dining hall food, I'd grab a few things I could microwave in my dorm room to change it up. Not so much a favorite, but a standby, I usually had Hot Pockets around. I also enjoyed pop tarts, but rarely let myself buy them. After all, they're "awful for you". (I conveniently ignored this same reasoning with the Hot Pockets.)
She hummed as she chopped the carrots. Sometimes nonsense notes, sometimes the melodies to hymns of which she had long since forgotten the words. The knife made a gentle ‘thwap, thwap’ against the cutting board, soothing in its regularity. She used the edge of her palm to push the diced carrots back up onto the blade, then scraped them off into the pot of slowly simmering soup. There was something comforting, something calming about making soup. Taking the small bits and pieces and leftovers of meals and dropping into a bit of water, or, if she’d thought ahead, some stock, somehow produced a thing greater than the sum of its meager parts.
Les didn’t really want to leave. It wasn’t the hotel, Heaven knows it wasn’t that, they were all the same. Sleeper Suites, Pearl’s Inn, The Fawn Motel, they were all the same. Small rooms, door directly to the outside, thirty years out of date and in terrible disrepair. That’s why he chose them, actually, because he knew he’d find work. Les was a jack-of-all-trades, good at most repair jobs, and couldn’t stand to stay in one place for long. He’d roll into town, set up residence in a somewhat seedy motel, exchanging rent for repairs and a bit of cash for food and fuel, and then move on when most things were in order and he got the itch to drive again.
Margaret fidgeted in her seat. Her mother had given her a couple crayons and a small pad of paper to keep her occupied, but she'd filled them up, front and back. The ceremony hadn't even started yet, and she was bored. She kicked her feet, which was okay right up until she accidentally kicked the back of the seat in front of her, where her grandmother Marie was sitting. She turned her head and gave Margaret such a look that she sat still for a full minute afterward.
Chris and I have talked about the things we'd like to teach Jonathan as he grows up. How to do laundry, how to clean a toilet, etc. High on the list is teaching him how to cook. I've shown him a couple things, how to measure flour and spices, how to crack an egg without exploding it, (I didn't know you could make an egg explode quite so well as my son has done. Thankfully we've *mostly* moved past that.) I'm learning patience in the process of this teaching, mainly because it's all I can do not to take over and do things "the right way" and just let him stir a bit with the wooden spoon when I'm done.
Jonathan and I had a great time at the Children's Museum recently. We were both having a rather bad day, but we went anyway to burn off some extra energy, and it turned out to be a great turnaround to the day. I snagged a few pictures while Jonathan briefly stood still, then it was off to the next thing. :)
I'm nearly done harvesting everything from our garden. I need to do final cleanup this week, pulling up dead plants and trimming others, but I'm somewhat dreading it, mainly for the mosquitoes and other bugs that have taken up residence, who like to defend their territory against me. It must be done though, as our last yard waste pick up day is Thursday. It seems earlier this year, even though it's not. Oh well. Harvest has gone well this year, despite my having lost interest in the garden in August, as I always do, only gaining interest again when it was cooler in late September. Everything survives without me at this point, especially since it's started raining again. I can't remember the last time I watered my garden, honestly.
This is currently my favorite flower growing in our yard. It's a lovely rosebush that produces lots of vibrantly hot pink roses. I've already clipped some and brought them in for a small bouquet to enjoy, and there's still half a dozen more. I normally wouldn't have chosen a long stem rosebush, but I really love this one, so much so that I may end up getting another to plant nearby, if I can decide on a color!