Our freight train washing machine, the one that had incontinence problems and peed all over the bathroom floor on a daily basis, has now been replaced by a great white monster with a multitude of little red eyes and one enormous gaping maw.

The way we kneel in front of it in reverent awe, a foreigner might mistake it for an idol.

In fact, Mr. Handsome even built a pedestal for it. I asked him what he was working on in the barn and he said, “A pedestal.”

“To put me on?” I asked.

“No, dummy, for the machine,” he answered. “The floor’s uneven.”

We both agreed the pedestal was a mistake—it took up too much room and looked dumb. So the machine got demoted to ground level.

The machine monster is very polite. It thoughtfully chews its fibrous food, pausing every couple minutes to savor the flavors. I’m kind of in love with it. It determines load-size on its own, uses half of the detergent and a fraction of the water. It even has a steam feature and a delayed start function.

Not that I know how to use them, but still.

Car conversations were fabulous with our Fresh Air Boy along for the ride. I’d listen to the kids chatter and discuss and then I’d laugh—deeply, silently, face hidden—so hard the tears came. I wished I had a tape recorder because there was no way I could do justice to the dozens of odd things that bubbled up out of them.

On the way to the creek one day, The Fresh Air Boy and Miss Beccaboo had a rousing discussion about which was better, homeschool or regular school. Each was adamant that their way was the best.

Miss Beccaboo: It only takes an hour to do my work, not all day.

Fresh Air Boy: But we got recess. We get to go play.

Miss B: We can stand up and walk around whenever we want. Talk, get a drink. In school? No way!

FAB: We can talk in school!

Miss B: In class? I don’t think so!

FAB: Well, we got lunch.

Miss B: I don’t like school lunches.

FAB: They give you two choices, peanut butter or pizza—

Miss B: I don’t like peanut butter. I only like homemade things—

FAB: and chocolate milk.

(Small pause)

Miss B: I get green smoothies.

I have an ingrown thumb nail. At first I had no idea what the problem was. I only knew that my thumb hurt. And the hurt kept growing. The pain peaked after a couple weeks—it was excruciating. I couldn’t push the buttons on the cruise control, fasten back the girls’ hair, go jogging. I took painkillers, did hot and cold soaks, applied neosporin and tea tree oil. And still, a small bit of swelling was the only outward indication that I had an ouchie. I was convinced they would have to amputate, or at the very least tear off my nail to get to the root of the problem.

Probably I had thumb-bone cancer.

But then a pocket of puss rose to the surface, down at the base of my nail, and the pain gradually subsided. Now the pain is localized to that spot, which has turned slightly black. It almost doesn’t hurt at all.

It’s weird to get an ingrown nail at the base of the nail (I think). But it’s because I have a special nail. Back when I was a honkin’ huge, clumsy child of 8 or 9 (the only thing that’s changed is my age), I was messing around at my dad’s workbench in the basement. I was chiseling wood—holding the wood with my left hand and chiseling towards it with my right. (Stupid stuff like this drives my common-sense savvy carpenter husband crazy.) The chisel slipped (of course) and slid right into my thumb, smoothly cutting through nail and flesh. I froze, studying the situation—long sharp chisel fused to flesh—and then carefully pulled the chisel back out. Drops of blood fell, staining the concrete floor (I was inordinately proud of those marks of my suffering) as I raced for the stairs, wailing for all I was worth.

My thumb healed, leaving a nice long scar, but my nail was forever warped, not adhering to the side of my thumb, but leaving a little window into the underside of nail life. It never gave me any problems. Until now.

The moral of the story: All youthful follies eventually catch you up. And when they do, they hurt like the dickens.

Just so you don’t think that everything in my kitchen turns out delicious and amazing: I made this zucchini cake.

It was gross, oily and under-baked. The crunchy lemon glaze was, however, delicious so I ate a bunch of it before dumping some leftover spaghetti on top of the whole ragged affair and shipping it off to the chickens.

This is what my mother does when we visit her: she feeds us morning, noon, and night. And then some.

And she doesn’t just hand out the food any old way. It’s always thoughtfully and artfully arranged.

I went up to tuck the kids in and there were my girls in their bed, a plate of tooth-pick studded, homegrown cantaloupe cubes on the spindly-legged bed stand. I think little plates of cheese and crackers made their way upstairs, too.

And you know what she wanted to do when we left the next evening? She asked me if she might hand little cups of whipped cream-topped apricot puree in the van window as we pulled out the drive. Me, being the motherly ogre (and only practical adult on the premises, it appeared), visions of sticky fingers and sugar-amped kids floating in my head, vetoed the idea. Sorry, Mom (and kids, though they know not what they missed)!

Never trust your internet friends.

They send you weird snacks and treats.

Bugs.

Jellybeans flavored like barf, skunk spray, pencil shavings, and diaper wipes.

Which make your kids spit.

And dry heave.

And gag.

And then they try to persuade you to put down your camera and take a taste, which you do.

And then, of course, you spit.

The end.

This same time, years previous: apples

If you went to my brother’s house to eat, he might serve you groundhog quiche. He did that, you know. The title of this post is true through and through.

I was telling our visiting relations about my brother’s rodent treatment policy and my sister-in-law said, “‘Kill a groundhog and put it in a quiche’—it sounds like the lyrics to a country song. He should write a song about it.”

I promptly emailed my brother: “Write a country song that has this refrain: Kill a groundhog and put it in a quiche. Sing it, record it, and put it on youtube. Thanks.”

The next morning the lyrics were in my inbox. A week later, he set them to music.

round about the time i turned 27
i thought back to my childhood in almost heaven
and i could smell the fresh boiled kale
and taste the fine fat cherries filling up my pail

so i set out to return to my roots in the garden
and i dug my whole yard up just to put some chard in
and tomatoes, squash, peppers and zucchini
i believed that i could be a veggie garden genie

Chorus:
KILL A GROUNDHOG and put it in a quiche
GRIND UP GROUNDHOG and put it in a quiche
put-it-in-a put-it-in-a put-it-in-a put-it-in-a
put-it-in-a put-it-in-a put-it-in-a quiche

well the seeds were in the ground and air was warm
then the plants began to sprout, why, this looks like corn!
i had shown my country light in an urban darkness,
i was superman with green hands fighting concrete starkness

but then a force more sinister than i had ever known
dug her hole by my yard and called it her home
before my eyes she grew in size as the squash disappeared
i felt used by this rodent, it was totally weird

Chorus

1 cup flour, splash of oil makes the crust
spinach, eggs, onions and cheese make the mush
add the de-boned corpse and turn the oven on high
bake it a while and you have yourself a groundhog pie!

Chorus

The tune is rollicking and catchy. I walk around the house belting, “Grrrrind up grrrroundhog and put it in a quiche…” I have no plans to try it, but my children are smitten. When our dog killed a groundhog (in front of our Fresh Air Boy‘s wide eyes, no less), Sweetsie came running in to beg me to please, please, PLEASE cook it and put it in a quiche. I declined. I have my limits and cooked groundhog is one of them.

This same time, years previous: SOS! And there are four bushels of apples sitting on my porch as I type this. Tomorrow we will turn them all into sauce and I will die. Sunday I will be resurrected. (I hope.)

This is the third year that Mr. Handsome and I have participated in the Fresh Air Fund. The first year was a loooong time ago, back when we were first married (14 years this month). We hosted two girls. I don’t remember much from that visit except that they were sweet and that they freaked out over the potato bugs.

Then last year we went through the interview process again and ended up with a seven-year-old boy. We lucked out—he’s sweet and well-mannered. We invited him back, and to our delight, he accepted.

Lest you be deceived, hosting a complete stranger from the inner city—practically another country—is not all rosy-posy sugar-n-pie. There’s homesickness, bickering, an extra mouth to feed, and sibling jealousy.

The first several days with our little boy are the toughest. That’s when media-detox takes place, as well as the strongest pangs of homesickness. Little Fresh Air Boy doesn’t talk for the first 24 hours. Last year I thought it was because he was scared senseless, but he did the same thing again this year.

I’ve determined it’s because he’s scared senseless.

But then he thaws and his personality (and love of hot sauce) gets a chance to shine through. He develops coping methods that involve book-reading and matchbox car-playing, swinging, and befriending the dog.

We don’t do much special stuff when he’s here. (We don’t do much special stuff when he’s not. I figure I’m special enough and that the rest of my family ought to be just tickled pink to get to hang out with me every single day.) We make a trip to West Virginia—the real country—where my parents put on a show complete with a treasure hunt, watermelon picking, a hike through the woods to play in the creek, music-making, a javelin-throwing contest, and extensive read-aloud time.

Back home, I make it a point to go swimming at both the pool and the creek, though I place a much greater emphasis on the creek, partly because of the excellent exploring opportunities and partly because I can take my computer and write the whole time.

Our Fresh Air Boy had never been to a creek before he came to see us, and despite the weird stinky smells, he loves it.

Fresh Air Boy is passionate about my granola, applesauce, and spaghetti. He has learned to appreciate nectarines. We went to a wedding—his first—where he tried everything on the buffet, including both kinds of Pakistani kima and both kinds of salad dressing. We were duly impressed and told him so.

This year we attended the Fresh Air Fund picnic. There were people there who have been hosting Fresh Air kids for years and years and years. The chairwoman (who makes a killer homemade peach ice cream) told me that this year there were 4500 fresh air kids in the program. At the peak, there were 7000. The number had declined due to lack of families, but now it’s on the rise again.

I chatted with a number of other host moms. A common thread ran through our conversations: nearly each of us has a child who reacts negatively to the Fresh Air child. The way to deal with it? Send the irritated/irritating child to be with the grandparents, provide plenty of daily space and quiet time, have planned activities (for your own children as well as the guest child), and thank your lucky stars that the program lasts for only ten days.

And then do it all over again next year because it is so totally worth it.

This same time, years previous: Fresh Mozzarella and On drying food