This is when I write something terribly profound and moving and inspiring, but I'm actually just killing time before I jet over to a friend's house. This is my newish and preferred mode of socializing these days: weeknight-after bedtime-get togethers. I don't know why it took me so long to figure this out. Maybe because most of the time I'm so tired after the kids go to bed I can't bear the idea of putting on real clothes and leaving the house. But it works really well for us. Phillip doesn't feel deserted in the witching hour with two children and I still get to have some grown up time. He occasionally goes out for his own fun, but I'm married to one of those minimal people-seers. I believe this is part of the male DNA? Maybe once a month, maybe less, Phillip emails The Guys and suggests a movie he knows I will never agree to see, with a detour at IHOP before heading home. Yes, IHOP. We are GOOD TIMES, people.
Anyway. I've got a friend who's suddenly single parenting for a week and heading over to her house to help her finish homemade peach pie is the least I can do, right?
Speaking of peaches, Phillip and I are waiting with Bated Breath for these delectable lumps of scrumptiousness known as Rama (as in the farm, I think, is called Rama) Peaches. A few years ago his old boss told us about these famous peaches, appearing for one weekend only at the U District farmers' market. We bought a flat, of course, and I'm not really one to wax rhapsodic over fruit, but WOWIE. These were amazing peaches. So then we bought some last year, with a weeks' old Molly in tow. I'm following the local farmers' market organization on Twitter (LOVE TWITTER) and they keep advertising where the Rama Peaches will appear each weekend. They have yet to make it to a farmers' market near me, but when they DO, I'm inviting all of you for peach cobbler. Then you will die happy.
Watermelon is my favorite fruit. Is it even a real fruit? It's more like sugary water. And it's so sugary I've stayed away from it for the last two years because it's got, like, giant red circles and angry faces all around it in my low glycemic cookbook. SIGH. I'm realizing I didn't even eat the watermelon at the family reunion this weekend because it's so ingrained in me: DO NOT EAT THE WATERMELON. But really. Watermelon + Maggie = 4Ever. I recall many a summer in the backyard feasting on watermelon and spitting out the seeds at my brother when my parents weren't looking.
Man, this blawg is going downhill. Not that it was ever really going uphill, but you'd think I'd shoot for something more interesting than these random String Of Consciousness paragraphs. How about tomorrow: tomorrow I will write Something of Substance. HA. Suggestions? Perhaps a manifesto on my favorite vegetable, the French Fry?
I finally sent an email about Molly's birthday party today. (SORRY MOM.) I think that means I need to make a cake. I want to make a Hello Kitty cake. Not because Molly loves Hello Kitty, but because *I* love Hello Kitty and what if wait till Molly can ask for a Hello Kitty cake but it turns out she's one of those girls who'd rather die than be seen anywhere near a Sanrio store and threatens to boycott her own party if I make a Hello Kitty cake? My heart will break into a zillion tiny pieces. UNFORTUNATELY: the future pastry chef is out of town this weekend and therefore is unavailable for tending to 1) the inevitable disaster of a cake and 2) her sister's inevitable breakdown over the disaster of the cake. Anything other than a box cake in a 9x13 glass dish is unwise.
And you know what I want to do when the playgroupers come over? Make these. AMBITIOUS MUCH? It's like I'm TRYING to give myself a panic attack before our Disney trip. No really. When I am going to make the CAKE let alone the CAKE POPS?