My voice is slowly coming back. Yesterday was the first time I allowed myself to socialize with someone outside my family. I had lunch with a friend who didn’t mind that I was still kind of croaky. I have babysitting duties this week so I am spending lots of time with grandchildren. When I picked up the kids from school on Monday, they – and when I say “they” I am talking primarily about Maggie Faith and Dagny – were quite distraught about my voice, or lack thereof. They began giving lots of advice from the back seat. “I think you should drink a big glass of milk,” Dagny advised. I explained – well, croaked, really – that milk was probably the worst thing to drink since my throat was full of mucus and milk is thick and would not be helpful. “Suck on throat lozenges,” suggested Magnolia. I told Maggie that I thought that was a pretty good idea. Their concern and advice is touching, and might save me doctor bills in the future.
Eat What You Read
For as long as I can remember, when I read about people enjoying food in a book, I immediately begin craving that food. A year ago or so, I recall reading a mystery that took place in Mississippi in which numerous mentions were made about eating fried catfish. If we had been in Denver, I would have known exactly where to go to feed the craving for fried catfish. However, we were in Arizona, and while I’m sure there is someplace that offers fried catfish, I didn’t know what they place might be. So instead, I did a fairly good job of preparing it myself. I just finished a book that had many references to food (I will review the book tomorrow). In the course of one book, I felt the need to eat Indian food, fix myself a soft-boiled egg and a piece of buttered toast to dunk in the egg, and fix myself a piece of cinnamon toast because these things were mentioned in the book. There’s something about reading about people enjoying some kind of food that makes me want to be part of that experience. By the way, my grandmother never fixed me any other kind of egg but soft-boiled. She taught me how to cut off the end and enjoy the runny goodness. I have yet to successfully cook a soft-boiled egg. The egg turns out either too undercooked or too overcooked. But I’m still working on it.
I have mentioned many times how much Bill and I love our house in Arizona. It’s small and one story. While neither Bill nor I have any problems climbing stairs – at least not yet – we both wish we could fold up the house and bring it home when we come back to Denver. Pretty sure Jen wouldn’t like that idea since it’s her house too. Our Denver house, while not a mansion, has an upstairs and a basement, both which we must access regularly. And again, while not a mansion, it has four bedrooms and three bathrooms, a living room, a dining room, an office, and a family room, along with the expected kitchen. Here’s what we use: the family room, the kitchen, the office, and our bedroom. The rest become storage rooms and dust collectors.
We have a new electronic neighborhood bulletin board that Bill and I have joined. I really like it. It’s, for example, how I found the young man who shoveled our walks this past winter. I noticed one of the ads yesterday was for someone who wanted to know if anyone was interested in doing a wardrobe swap as she has apparently lost weight. It made me laugh out loud. I would like to see the look on someone’s face when they took a look at my wardrobe. They seriously would start taking up a collection so that I could purchase, well, a wardrobe.
It Takes a Village
Yesterday when I picked up the grandkids from school, I looked around and noticed that somewhere in the neighborhood of a third of the folks waiting for school dismissal were clearly grandparents. What would we do without our extended family?