Tuesday, April 19, 2011
The sun was pouring through the dining room windows this morning as I spooned oatmeal into Sophie's mouth, and it deflected off the treasures I have piled on my desk in the kitchen. Photos of each of my children haphazardly arranged, a postcard of Dostoevsky about which a friend asked is that your lover? and while she was joking I was not when I replied, yes, actually. The calendar of pastries is propped up behind the tiny teacup filled with inchies that Kim sent me, next to a tiny smooth rock covered in a perfect crocheted coat from lovelyworld. Henry swings in the perfection of ten months old, behind him rises the tower of power with a garden on top, constructed twelve years later, for you, mom, do you like it? The cookbooks speak of diets never tried and ancient comforts, The Peanuts Lunch Bag Cookbook a relic of a happy seventies childhood, an apple whose top is cut off, the fruit scooped out and mixed with mayo, raisins and celery, then stuffed back in, the top a hat. Beyond, the green outside, the creeping bougainvillea that grows despite. Like treasure, despite.