A whole twenty-four hours all to myself. Pure bliss, sweet as honey. A balm for the weary soul. Glorious.

If you could have twenty-four hours alone in your house, what would you choose to do? My goal was to make believe I was a writer. For eight hours, I decided, I would write.

People do that, you know. They wake up in the morning, fix a cup of coffee, and then sit down at their desk and type till the sun goes down or their fingers fall off, whichever comes first.

I have a writer friend. Each day when her girls and hubby leave the house, she sits down and writes, six whole hours of words. Her fingers have been worn down to nubbins, just little bumps dangling from the ends of her hands.

So anyway, that was my plan: lose my fingers. Endurance writing. However, I knew from the get-go that I was doomed to fail, at least partially. We had overnight company arriving that night at 5, the same time that Mr. Handsome and the girls would be returning from their adventures, so there was last minute cleaning and cooking to attend to (despite the previous week’s spate of deep cleaning and nearly the a whole previous day spent doing more of the same). Plus I’m conditioned to only focus for two hours, three max, before switching gears. Extensive free time is not my norm. Therefore, I decided to write for a total of eight hours, but with breaks for cooking and cleaning. I made lists. I worked ahead. I cleared my schedule completely.

And then, a few minutes after Mr. Handsome drove off down the road with the giddy girls in tow, my mother called to see if I was ready for them to return my little boy. “Wh-wh-what? When?” I asked, choking back the rising panic. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Tomorrow morning,” she said brightly.

She wasn’t joking.

I started to cry.

I’m telling you right now, don’t anyone get between a mama and her much-anticipate and artfully arranged free time. We can handle peed-on sheets and written-on walls and permanent-markered lamp shades and broken cups and weird toe rashes and stinky farts, but tell us we can’t have our free time and things get reeeeal dicey.

Thankfully, bless her heart, my mother sensed that my desperation to be alone was greater than my son’s desire to return home. They’d keep him, she said. Write in peace, my dad said.

I finished washing the bathroom floor, soaked in a tub of cold water (it’s becoming an evening ritual, what with this fearsomely hot weather we’re having), wrote for two hours before bed, rose at 5:30 to go for a rulk (that’s run and walk, combined), and then did two hours of chores before showering and settling on the sofa for a whole day of writing, cold drinks and brownies standing at the ready to urge me onward.

In order to help me focus, I do all my writing in a word document with my internet turned OFF. I force my fingers to keep tapping, my mind to keep wrenching the thoughts from my brain (yes, a mind is different from a brain). It’s draining work, this mind-digging, and for an extrovert like me, it can be torturous. So I drink (iced!) tea and coffee, crunch on a peanut butter apple, notice my toenails need to be trimmed, admired my clean house, review the last minute food prep details, and then return reluctantly to the task at hand (ha! a pun! or it would be if I was hand writing—get it?): writing.

Now, in honor of my game, some quotes by writers about their craft:

“Writing is my vacation from living.” EUGENE O’NEILL (Ain’t that the truth.)

“Do not wait to strike till the iron is hot; but make it hot by striking.” WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS (What if it never gets hot?)

“The one great rule of composition is to speak the truth.” HENRY DAVID THOREAU (Humph. Like that’s easy.)

“If you want a trophy, go learn how to bowl. If you want to write, God help you.” CINTRA WILSON (I hate bowling. I take this as a good sign.)

“Writers have no real area of expertise. They are merely generalists with a highly inflamed sense of punctuation.” LORRIE MOORE (So if I’m no good with commas, what does this all mean?)

“The act of writing puts you in confrontation with yourself, which is why I think writers assiduously avoid writing.” FRAN LEBOWITZ (Hear! Hear! She speaks truth!)

“Finish the day’s writing when you still want to continue.” HELEN DUNMORE (My mom already done did teached me this.)

About one year ago: Raspberry-Lemon Buttermilk Cake
About two years ago: Angel Bread

Miss Beccaboo still isn’t reading.

The funny thing is, she can read. She reads whole sentences like “Jane rides the mule past the gate,” or “Bob had nine dimes and gave me five.” She knows the rules and how to sound out the words (something Yo-Yo never learned to do), but it still hasn’t clicked.

This bothers me more than I thought it would, perhaps because she’s a girl or maybe because she so badly wants to read. I don’t want her to know that I’m concerned, so I have to actively tamp down my worries and play it cool. I wonder if I should do something else, try a different method or drill her more often. I’ve even considered teaching her over the summer.

It is not like me to worry so. I believe that The Learning Time Table bestowed upon us by The System is one hundred percent bogus. I believe that there are different types of learners and different types of intelligence, all of which are equally valuable.

Considering all my noble ideals, my angst over my daughter’s reading, or lack thereof, is ironic. Instead of fretting, I should be thrilled that I have this incredible opportunity to put my beliefs into practice. I’ve always said kids learn when they’re ready and here I get to watch the amazing process up close, firsthand! Whoo-hoo!

While I’m not exactly thrilled by this opportunity, I have enough common sense to know that pushing Miss Beccaboo is not the answer. Even though I strongly believe this, and have lots of research to back me up, I have to repeatedly remind myself to stay calm. Otherwise, I fall victim to the senseless “shoulds” and “have-to’s” of our culture. And that’s pointless.

So when the school year ended, I steadied my resolve and determined, all over again, to simply let Miss Beccaboo be. I shelved the reading workbooks and turned her free. We don’t talk about reading (not that we discussed it much before, but I’m making a point to avoid the topic) and instead she does chores and plays, often combining the two in delightfully quirky ways as is her custom.

Technically, I’m not doing anything to help her read, unless you count our fun read alouds and the books on tape she adores. To proponents of our country’s (tortured) educational system, perhaps this approach seems negligent. But I beg to disagree. Sometimes doing nothing is the hardest thing to do.

And that’s something.

About one year ago: Cottage Potatoes
About two years ago: Orange Julius, Swiss Chard with an egg on top

So yes, I’m taking belly dancing. Coin belts are involved. It’s very very fun.

It’s also frustratingly difficult.

You don’t believe this? You think it’s just me that has a problem ‘cause I’m a dance-move challenged mama of four? Okay, then let’s see you try this.

Stand up, feet spread a foot apart and flat on the floor, knees bent, back straight. This is the belly dancing stance. Always return to it. Never forget it.

Now, make your knees go like pistons, never straightening them out all the way. Don’t you raise your eyebrows at me—just do it. No, no, no, do NOT move your shoulders! That’s better. Remember to keep your head up. Your piston-ing legs should make your hips jut out in classic baby-holding fashion, you know that move at least. Keep your shoulders still, back straight. Faster now. Snap those hips tight!

Let’s try something else. Pretend you have a rod going straight up through your body. Make your hips move around it while holding the rest of your body still.

Now try it again, just moving your tail bone this time. Now your waist, good, and now your chest—no no no no, not your waist and your chest, just your chest. Geesh.

Now for your neck. Pretend you’re painting circles with your chin—

What’s that? This is impossible, you say?

Yep, I agree completely, absolutely, and wholeheartedly. But Rose (instructor/hostess/friend) is totally unaware of this and makes us do it anyway—she’s like a snake in a hula-hoop, minus the scales and flicking tongue. She tries to encourage us (or rather, me, ’cause I’m the newest student) by explaining that since our bodies don’t normally move this way—no kidding—it takes intense focus. In fact, it’s more a study in the art of refraining from moving than it is learning to move. The movement is so concentrated and subtle and specific; just keeping all the other muscles in check is enough to make my head explode.

Exploding heads are not graceful.

This past class Rose told us to tighten our upper stomach muscles while relaxing the lower ones, and then to flip-flop. I never even knew I had those muscles, let alone that I could isolate them. I’m pretty sure she was pulling our collective leg.

So that, my dears, is my new endeavor. The kids play, the moms dance in front of a big mirror, and then we all gather around the dining room table and drink tea. In all respects, a lovely morning indeed.

This new enterprise suits me, food-loving, belly-focused, navel-gazer that I am. My existence has come full circle—I feed my belly good things and then I take it dancing. I am such a well-rounded person.

What would be a belly post without food? Not a good belly post, that’s what. So for those of you who prefer to make your belly’s dance on the inside, I’ve got a shrimp recipe for you. Mr. Handsome, a decidedly non-belly dancer dude, boogied to it big time, to the tune of three huge platefuls.

Aside from the obvious shrimp and linguine, this stars two of my favorite ingredients: cilantro and lime. I tell you, I am head over heels in love with those two. My cilantro patch is rapidly transitioning into its last days, but it’s forever plentiful at the Mexican market that squats outside my favorite butcher shop. And the market, I’ve discovered, is a blessed boon for good limes—eight fat juicy green ones for a single solitary buck. (Locals, take note—the Mexican squatter market is open Fridays and Saturdays from 8 to 5. It’s scrappy and small. I adore it.)

Linguine with Shrimp and Cilantro-Lime Pesto
Adapted from the July 2010 issue of Bon Appetit

1 ½ cups packed fresh cilantro, divided
2 tablespoons chopped onion
3 tablespoons fresh lime juice
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 tablespoon chopped seeded jalapeño or serrano pepper
½ cup plus 1 tablespoon olive oil
½ teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1 pound linguine
1 pound uncooked shrimp, peeled and deveined
3 tablespoons tequila or chicken broth
1/4 cup crumbled feta cheese

In a food processor or blender, add 1 1/4 cups of the cilantro leaves, the onion, lime juice, cloves, jalapeño, salt, and pepper and pulse till chunky. Gradually add the half cup of olive oil and blend till smooth. (May be made one day ahead of time. Cover and refrigerate till ready to use.)

Cook the linguine according to package instructions. Drain and set aside.

While the pasta is cooking, heat the remaining tablespoon of olive oil in a large skillet, add the shrimp and cook for three or four minutes. Add the tequila and stir till sauce is slightly syrupy, about 30 seconds. Add the pesto and stir to coat. Add the pasta and toss to coat. Taste to correct seasonings. Chop the remaining cilantro and sprinkle over the pasta along with the feta.

About one year ago: Spaghetti with Swiss Chard, Raisins, and Almonds
About two years ago: Yogurt