Running.

My guys are runners. I am not. I am much more happy riding my bike, and would rather save running for those "Only if I absolutely must..." times. I do love that they like to run together. This picture is from a race they did back on May 3rd. I got to hang out and take pictures of them and friends, while they got to spend time together doing something they love to do. A good day.

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High Stakes Pop Quiz.

Natalie particularly loved studying with her roommate, Jessica. They had a tradition – whenever one of them had a big test the next day, or better yet, both of them, they’d walk over to Fromage et Pain, Jessica’s dad’s deli and buy the widest variety of odd cheeses they could afford. Sometimes they dictated what was odd by how it looked, and sometimes they just went by the names and packaging, if there was any. Often her dad was behind the register, and he’d roll his eyes at their motley selections, ring them up, and throw in a Margo’s Bark root beer for her and a Scotty’s Butterscotch soda for Jessica, no charge for being “such …good customers.” They’d cart their haul back the five blocks and upstairs to their tiny apartment and divvy up all the cheese.

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Poulet.

Usually when I am considering whether or not to buy a new cookbook, I have a rule. I have to at least intend to make at least half the recipes in the cookbook to actually buy it, otherwise it’s good to check out from the library to read through the couple recipes I’m interested in. Often, if the cookbook has them, the breakfast and the dessert sections are a lock. (It’s hard not to like those…) Its the main dish sections, usually the reason I’m interested in the cookbook in the first place, that tends to disqualify them. As a rule, we eat beef, chicken, and vegetarian recipes most often. If a cookbook is heavy on pork/ham recipes, or seafood, I usually pass it by. This is why, when I came across Poulet, a cookbook entirely comprised of chicken and side dish recipes, I was so excited. Most of the recipes call for either a whole chicken, something I’ve finally gotten used to working with, or chicken thighs, which are, admittedly, easier, but don’t make as frequent of an appearance.

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Garden of Memories.

Walter held his wife’s arm as they walked out into the sun. Betty loved sitting on the bench in their garden, so every day the weather allowed it, he’d help her outside to enjoy the sunshine. Sometimes he pulled up the dandelions that continually invaded the lawn around them. Often, though, he would simply sit and hold his wife’s hand. She didn’t speak much anymore, but she still seemed to enjoy his presence, and would sometimes even lay her head on his shoulder. 

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Dancing Music.

Amelia laughed. Kansas’s “Carry On, Wayward Son” was blasting through the store’s speakers, and her friend Winnie was doing a fantastic air guitar between the CD racks. It was Friday afternoon, historically the slowest time for Gunther’s CD Warehouse, when everyone really had something better to do with their weekend than searching through the sloppily organized stacks of new and used CDs. Rodney, her manager, took that opportunity to try out new mixes that he’d worked on all week. They were usually so chaotically put together that they’d drive customers out, but Amelia didn’t care. They were fun, and Winnie would always dance to make the time fly by.

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Coffee Shop Romance.

Gabi stared, dazed, out the window, half-listening to the buzz of noise around her. It was her slow hour, just after the morning rush and just before the lunch crowd filtered in. The coffee shop she worked at, Café et Thé, had a good mix of comfortable broken-in seating and high tables for people to work at, so there were always people around, mostly her regulars, but they were all busy with their laptops and books and conversations. Sam wasn’t here yet to entertain her, so she just watched people out the window. A man with a vivid purple mohawk and a business suit walked by Paulo, the shop’s local mailman. Gabi grabbed a cup and filled it with the daily blend and a sugar cube, just in time for Paulo to walk in and set a dollar and change on the counter.

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Ira and Maude.

“Ira? IRA?”

“WHAT, Maude?” Ira leaned out of the bathroom, toothbrush still hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

“Ira, I think you’d better come look at this!” Maude yelled back, sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at her feet. Ira walked over, scratching his side as he moved, then tugging his white undershirt back down again.

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