no wonder you rise in the middle of the night

just when life and work is back to it's breezy, shining self, we're off again. this time to find family and do family things together. it's not even summer. but i don't believe we'll be traveling at all come summer we we might as well get it out of our systems now. and it's been a very long time. this morning over cereal i quiz henry on the names of his uncles and cousins, pointing at their smiling faces, the photos pulled from the fridge and placed on the table. we discuss playing gently and using kind words when we go to play with other children. he is excited and says, "no hitting!"



inspired by the dark and mysterious quincy, i leave you the first of a few in a series shouting out "if i could be...."

if i could be a chef i would have a cabinet painted turquoise full of exceedingly sharp knives. first i would take a knife handling course, of course, of course, possibly even a grad-level cutlery class, so that i would not slice off a precious finger or two. i know all about cutting ones hands, and it's not pretty, nor is it pleasant, nor is it something i hope to ever experience again, either self or vicariously. nothing overly glamorous about tendon and nerve therapy, although the experience was emotionally cathartic and matured me in many ways, thanks to the smiling shellye and the handsome dr. millon. and i have the most fabulous curling scar across my wrist and down my arm. and one little one on the palm of my hand. tarenne wanted pictures of it once. i don't remember if she took any. she had a book of scar photographs and i felt like i was the proud owner of something secret and special (instead of a wayward freakshow) when she wanted pictures of it.

as an english-accented chef with a multitude of mezzaluna knives and large, shining butcher knives, (and a box of spiderman bandaids) i would also have an unending supply of ripe avocadoes. a woman in a red truck wearing a golden jumpsuit would back into my drive and deliver a crate of them daily and i would in turn hand her a crusty loaf of bread and some sort of aging cheese from the larder.

there would also be a prolific garden with a variety of helpful, tanned and smiling gardeners wearing white all day long, who, when not sent into the garden to fetch cilantro or fennel or large red bell peppers would lounge lemonade-worthy in an assortment of hammocks hanging at various intervals and heights in the surrounding trees. white hammocks, white shoes, white everywhere so that i could find them in the midst of the green.

my children would wear aprons and learn the proper way to slice a tomato, techniques for roasting garlic, the concocting of a sensational new green goddess salad dressing, all at an early age. they would run barefoot through the house, the yard, eating strawberries and waving homemade swords at the gardeners.

my husband would come home to dinners served on green or yellow plates and an italian speaking boy (eighteen years of age, of course) with long black hair and green alligator boots will be doing the dishes while we four eat our dinner and taste tempting desserts out under the starry tree. the boy will bring us coffee and while we drink it, slow and creamy, and henry spins circles, and jude drifts off to sleep, the boy will play an accordion or perhaps a piccolo, something simple and sweet to finish the working day and send us soaring into the black of night.

if i were a chef....