sunday follies

I’ve spent the last few days researching Vietnamese recipes, acquiring the correct ingredients and detouring to Seattle for supplies (thanks Mr. Vu!) to make tonight’s dinner party fare. We bought a new picnic table (made from local lumber by a farmer’s market artisan!) and Ralph built a special gate to keep our chickens off our deck; he also pressure-washed said deck to get it human-ready (the chickens had developed the bold habit of darting on board in anticipation of kitchen scraps – their favorites being leftover oatmeal, peanut butter, and strawberry tops).  We cleaned the house including a reorganization of the kids’ room for best playdate effect.  My mother rehabbed her little propane grill and gifted it to us for permanent installment.  We were ready for the proverbial bear.

Of course when I aspire to this level of hostess-itude something is bound to go wrong, right?  In this case, our friend texted one of our dinner guests to say she and her kids would not be coming – fifteen minutes after they were supposed to be here.  I really dislike getting canceled on (and of course my kids were robbed of their anticipated visit from friends). As I put the food out I felt that kind of depressed, crappy feeling, the bit of sad arsedness being stood up can reap (don’t ask me why).  Fortunately for my family, my mom and our girlfriend F. delivered us much lively conversation and appreciation for the food (my mom also brought two kinds of wine and fresh-squeezed lemon/limeade, which helped). After dinner F. and Nels got up to several mock fights precipitated by Nels’ recent viewing of The Karate Kid against F.’s impudent assertions she was descended from ninjas and born on the Great Wall of China (not sure how that works). Nels retaliated against her prowess by using first his shoes as weapons and later, accidentally yet comically, one of his braised and grilled pork balls (which hit the wall behind my head with a tidy whump). Frustrated I chased my boy into the closet (his choice of refuge) where he wailed in remorse and I told him to settle down. As I returned to the living room he hollered, “Turn on the light, Mama!” and I did.  “If you leave the light on it’s not child abuse,” F. cackled.

It’s hard to believe the weekend is over; Ralph and I had a full and delicious weekend together. I love my time with my children and our little trifecta of peace and homelife we get up to. I just wish in this sunny weather my husband had a few more days to spare.

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