Friday, November 13, 2009

With a cherry on top

The end of the week. The lovely husband is off to the grocery store to collect provisions and I’m off to daycare to collect consumers. It’s raining and it’s not an “oh, la-di-da it’s raining” kind of rain. It’s a vengeful rain, unrelenting. These attacks are personal. Those are not rain drops; they’re spears. They bite.

It’s been raining for days. There’s a small lake formed in the back of our back yard. Our very own pond. There’s the garden in the front of the back yard. The tomato and pepper plants dangle across the stakes; rotting. Am I supposed to pull them up? Turn them under? Leave them be and worry about it in the spring? The herbs, for some reason, though we’ve had a frost, they’re still thriving. Each day I look out the window and think, I must cut those and bring them indoors to dry. But not today, it’s too wet.

There was a time when I would have said a gray weekend made a perfect weekend. I’d stay in my pajamas and read/sleep/read and make lots of indulgent hot chocolate. I’d laze.

Now even lazing takes work because first there has to be a Consensus on Lazing, and there is never a Consensus Reached. Read/sleep/read isn’t the same when the story of choice isn’t mine, when I’m the reader but not the audience, when it all has to be done out loud. So much work. Lay on the couch isn’t the same when 60 pounds of Children are likely to jump upon you.

There was a time when weekends were for curative. Restorative. Now one must find one’s inner peace. inner strength. just to embark on the weekend.

This weekend is an ordinary weekend. Filled with all the ordinary things. The children’s service at our synagogue. A birthday party. A housewarming party. A trip to the library. Laundry. Dishes. Haircuts for the girls, maybe. And pie baking.

There has been some indignation that we never made our apple pies after our day of picking. So I have promised a Sunday morning of pie baking. With ice cream, the girl declared. And a cherry on top. She says there is always a cherry on top of apple pies. She knows, she says. She knows this. So the husband has top of his provisions list: jar of cherries.

I feel gray and spitted-upon but here’s to energy, to projects, to rejuvenation gleaned through their exuberance. Here’s to messy kitchens and patience and indulgence and festivities. Here’s to whip cream and pies.

Here’s to a weekend, yours, mine, that feels tingly with the anticipation of a cherry on top.
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