While breaking up a fight in the dryer between my daughter's oxford-blue work shirt and a pair of stubborn skinny jeans, I tried to latch onto a statement my older levied at me with all due affection in an earlier phone conversation. What, exactly, had he said? What was the wording? I'm forever losing thoughts and dropping words in that porous gray stone of a brain in my head.
The Italian parsley I earlier purchased at ye local Super Wal-Mart needed my attention -- a snipping of the stems; a cup of water in which to set the drooping bunch of fragrant herbage in order to perk it up for Ashley's Thanksgiving attempt at my favored homemade stuffing recipe. You see, the entire family will be without me for the first time, ever, during this delicious holiday of gratitude and belly delights, and they're dining elsewhere without any of mom's traditional dishes to grace the table. Hence, my eldest child's desire to cube and dry the sourdough, rye, and whole wheat breads for mixing with a slow-sauteed blend of grated carrots, minced mushroom, green onions, sliced celery, garlic cloves, and a sprinkling of chopped walnuts -- in butter and extra-virgin olive oil, of course -- before adding the secret blend of dried herbs, a touch of spice, and the chicken stock. But this is all a stimulating culinary digression as I again attempt to raise from the depths of my pitiful short-term memory that handful of winsome words my '5th fave' bro tossed my way . Oh-h-h . . . it had something to do with what I do . . .
Pots and pans from last night's adventure with beef stew call for scrubbing. I contemplate this chore before the distraction of a text on my iPhone engages me in a short discussion with aforementioned daughter. The subject matter? What, pray tell, is the exact potato-to-broth ratio of the previously concocted stew which is scheduled to make a second appearance on the Valdez table tonight? This results in a quick interaction between my ergonomically designed peeler, four small Yukon golds, and boiling water. As I direct dried dishes to their proper resting places, I again ponder. Did my elder sibling-scribe -- he's two years into penning his own book -- compliment some talent of mine?
Let's see . . . we were talking . . . the airport . . . marriage . . . writing inspiration . . . I parked the GMC Yukon in the driveway of our suburban home with its 2-car garage, 3 1/2 baths, naturally lit spacious kitchen, with a fireplace and bonus room. I emptied the compost bucket. Fed our wayward cat his late lunch. Let our senior dog outside. Organized the recycling bins. Realized the bird feeder was empty. Carried in the groceries from Trader Joe's. Wondered when I would find the time to finally pull the withered heirloom tomato plants left over from this summer, not to mention the expired morning glories and hummingbird vine. Reminded myself that our two highschoolers would need rides soon from practice. Hoped the husband would arrive home from work early enough to help deliver Thanksgiving food baskets to families in need. And, rediscovered my misplaced coupon holder for the third time in as many days.
Somewhere between the groceries and the coupons, my observant and admiring second-from-the-oldest brother said to me, "Gloria, you have become quite the domestic goddess." Everything in me wanted to say he was wrong, it wasn't so, that's not me . . .
Then, I remembered that batch of pumpkin biscotti I planned to bake for my Colorado trip. And that aggressive oxford-blue shirt I wanted to iron for my daughter. And how my toenails needed painting before Thursday. And my neighbor stopped by to drop off the waffle iron and plate he borrowed earlier in the week.
Wow! Is that my PICTURE in the dictionary right next to the definition?
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