Turkey soup is bubbling on the stove.
My son is tired and grouchy, but pulling out his viola to practice. Grouchy + tired + viola, hmmm. We’ll see how it goes.
My daughter says she is finished with her bath, but is dragging her way out of the bathroom slowly. She woke howling today, convinced her teacher would be mad that she’s not finished her Native American project. She was still weeping into her waffles when I phoned her teacher for a word of encouragement. Madeleine finished her last illustration this evening without further dramatics, so the weeping can be over and the project can be turned in tomorrow.
My husband tells me he was exposed to strep throat yesterday and by the way his head hurts a lot. I’m remembering Gloucester once had a “sick house” for contagious people, on the other side of town, and suddenly that seems like a good idea. I mean, he could take a stack of magazines, and I’d bring him some chicken soup (as long as he didn’t breathe near me).
Essays and a critical essay are due in a week. I’m drafting the critical essay today.
Got a work memo asking where my report was from last Friday. I’ve never heard of the necessary report form mentioned in the memo. I asked when I should send it, and the answer was “now would be good.” Sigh.
But, I have a critical essay topic and the book seems newly salient to daily life. M. F. K. Fisher wrote How to Cook a Wolf to encourage economy and even flair among beleaguered cooks suffering food shortages during World War II. While quite dated in some parts (one recipe is for flavored tooth cleaning powder), much of the “we could all use a bit of common sense” tone could be quite useful today.
I have turkey wings, bubbling into broth.
And the viola playing is not bad.
Thanksgiving was simple and lovely, and the leftovers did not last nearly long enough.
The house we hoped to buy was pulled from the market last week, and the sellers decided (firmly) to keep it for themselves. But we discovered we can qualify for a mortgage, especially if house prices continue to lower. And the former-sellers (the non-sellers?) know where to find us if they change their mind. (Which they clearly need to do—the land has a creek, a bit of woods, a view of our favorite beach, a fireplace…)
I was typing away earlier, in my bay window in the clouds, when the sky suddenly opened up and I could see the fog sink down to the ground, and gradually pull itself away. With the sun out, my daughter and I skipped along the beach for half an hour after school, watching the waves play, a lovely treat.
Now the stars are icy clear and sparkling and I need to think of dessert for children, who believe dessert happens every day and I’m too weary to argue. I love them wildly, and they are skinny children. I am glad for them to eat. So I’d best go rustle up something. Then their bedtime, then back to my work, if I can stay awake.
That’s my quick catchup. Tell me if you need more news, and I’ll keep you posted. But most likely, I’ll write again next week, after the pages of essays are turned in.
It’s still mostly fun to be a student, even if it means studying every waking hour, trying to catch up for five days at home with the family.
Tomorrow morning, they all leave AGAIN to go to school AGAIN and leave me to my quiet. Hopefully.