Tired, but Content

It's so peaceful this evening, with a spring snow softly falling, the fire blazing, my kitty asleep on the couch beside me, the kiddos laughing away at old episodes of The Cosby Show, Eric on his way home with ingredients for Irish Cream, a long, stressful week behind me.

I'm tired, but content. Stiff in the neck, but warm in the heart. Ready for a weekend, but already geared up for another week of work, home, family and my life, which is so good I can hardly believe it.

Love this Poem

I heard this poem on NPR the other day. Just lovely.

French Toast
by Anya Krugovoy Silver

Pain perdu: lost bread. Thick slices sunk in milk,

fringed with crisp lace of browned egg and scattered sugar.

Like spongiest challah, dipped in foaming cream

and frothy egg, richness drenching every yeasted

crevice and bubble, that's how sodden with luck

I felt when we fell in love. Now, at forty,

I remember that "lost bread" means bread that's gone

stale, leftover heels and crusts, too dry for simple

jam and butter. Still, week-old bread makes the best

French toast, soaks up milk as greedily as I turn

toward you under goose down after ten years

of marriage, craving, still, that sweet white immersion.

Points for Daddy

Yup, my husband is the greatest. He made this swing for the girls last week. It's just magical.

I hope you're all enjoying fall (or spring, as the case may be) in your part of the world. The days are quite lovely here. I'm already dreaming of the fires we'll enjoy in the fireplace soon, and of the garden we'll plant next spring... but I'm also squeezing all the goodness I can out of these gorgeous, bright, beautiful fall days.

Always

When he sat down, I'm sure he wasn't planning on three kids piling on top of him. But of course they did. He patiently sat while they snuggled in.


He always does.

Happy Father's Day, Eric.