Good advice

Today at the library, James & I boarded an elevator along with a freckle-faced woman about my age & an old man dressed like a hobo.
The old man peered into the stroller. "That's a pretty new person in there."
"Two months," I said.
The woman piped up. "My kids are just 18 months apart. After I brought the second one home, I swore to myself: Never again."
I: "My two boys are 2 years apart, and that's pretty close."
She: "Now they're 17 & 15 years old & I can't wait for them to get out of the house, I tell you."
The elevator arrived at its destination (one floor up). The woman disembarked first.
As soon as she was out of earshot, the old man leaned in to me and whispered "Don't pay attention to a word she said."
A fan of babies, or just a generally encouraging sort of person? I don't know, but I liked him.

I'm not in a hurry to get them out of the house.

Mastery

James's new skill:

A grand day out

And now I'm posting again. I don't like leaving a post about Dad at the top of the blog because anything I write about him seems like a big lie, like it's just something to write about; and not writing about him seems like a big lie, too, because I am thinking about him more or less constantly.

But I'm also doing other things! Like taking long walks along the B-Line trail, including its newest leg, from Second Street to Winslow.

Here's the evidence:

On Saturday's walk, Henry was thrilled to discover two diggers parked alongside the trail. By Sunday, he was greeting them as old friends.

We think the pedestrian bridge over Grimes looks dauntingly steep. Aren't there rules about things like this?

I liked the tone of some of the graffiti.

We didn't recognize the balls on this tree. Assuming they represent some kind of reproductive strategy, it doesn't seem very effective. But pretty!

Peter & Henry

Leora & James

Greens

Tonight I made Dave Tallent's collard greens for dinner. One curious thing that has been happening to me since Dad died is that I find myself spending a lot more time thinking about food, wanting to cook more, and caring more about what I make. I'm not even hungry, most of the time, but I want to make good food. I don't expect this to last, necessarily, but it makes sense to me right now, while I'm just starting to figure out what it means to me--a more or less middle-aged woman--to be fatherless--to be without my particular father. Since Mom--a pretty good cook herself in her time--reacted with shock and incredulity when I suggested she make herself the oatmeal-raisin cookies she's been craving (who could possible take the time to make cookies?) and my husband is the visionary behind PeteyChow foodloaf, it is clearly going to be up to me to make myself the food I like to eat: one of a thousand ways the world has changed.

So here's the recipe, as I made it:

6 slices of bacon, chopped
1 small yellow onion, diced
1 clove garlic, chopped
1 pound collard greens & 1 pound kale, without stems
4 tbs. cider vinegar
3 tbs. sorghum
1/2 cup chicken stock

In a large pot, cook the bacon until crisp. Add onion & garlic, cooking about 5 minutes until onion is soft. Add the greens to the pot, stirring to wilt, then add vinegar, sorghum, and chicken stock; simmer, covered, for 2 1/2 hours. Add salt & pepper to taste.

They were fantastic (if you like greens!). And of course they don't make anything any better at all, except dinner.

Two people sitting on the brown sosa*

Photo by the lovely Anna Haag, who along with my dear sister has been saving my bacon on these long, cold, sad days.

*Quoting Henry.

Statistics

James had his 2-month checkup this morning. His chub was much admired at the doctor's office, where it was confirmed that he's been eating his way up the charts. Height: 22.75 inches (75th percentile); weight: 12 lbs. (75th percentile); noggin: 40 cm. (75th percentile).

Henry, meanwhile, has kept busy pursuing his interests: throwing things and Rococo furniture.

Cold comfort

I don't have the stomach yet for writing a graceful tribute to Dad; there's no grace in what has happened. But I can't help feeling obscurely comforted by the weather: a "catastrophic" winter storm. Ice is coming down almost as if the sky is falling, which feels about right.

Of course, Dad looked forward to this sort of weather. He had his expedition-weight parka, too warm ever to wear, his industrial-strength flashlight, and his stash of Parmalat; I'd love to think he arranged it.