PS. Have you seen this talk by John Cleese on creativity? I’ve watched it twice now. He perfectly articulates how I experience the writing process (though he wasn’t specifically speaking about writing).

This same time, years previous: wild hair, cereal worship, and other sundry tales, flour tortillas, chocolate-covered peanut butter eggs, the value (or not) of the workbook, asparagus-walnut salad, asparagus with lemony crème fraîche and boiled egg

I’m a mixture of distracted and relaxed. This weird state of being comes from being intensely occupied at one moment to being free as a jaybird (or can one only be naked as a jaybird?) the next, with surprise bouts of puking thrown in to keep me on my toes. (Yes, another kid is hugging the bowl.) And all that is compounded by the acute awareness that our pace of life will soon go from an easy trot to a canter, and then—hold on for dear life!—to a gallop.

To cope with my anxiety and excitement, I do the oddest thing (my husband would call it the “dumbest” thing): I add more stuff to our schedule. Yeah, it makes no sense, but it’s how I deal.

Yesterday morning when I was rushing around, trying to get out the door for a day of errands and fun (a doctor’s appointment, eating out—twice, and ushering), I whipped up a batch of deviled eggs. I had made them the other day and wanted to tell you about them, but we scarfed them down so fast I never got around to taking the pictures. No matter. There were more Easter eggs in the fridge.

These deviled eggs aren’t your standard mayonnaise-and-mustard deviled eggs.

These deviled eggs are dressed up with extra spices and—this is the kicker—a knob of cream cheese.

And while I like the flavor (lots), what I really like is the rush I get when I open my spice cupboard and start adding a sprinkle of this and a pinch of that. It’s like I’m a for-real artist and the ingredient-dabbed white ceramic plate is my palette, the egg yolks my canvas.

Deviled Eggs

Disclaimer: all measurements are guesstimates.

These were store-bought eggs—for a more vibrant filling, use farm fresh eggs.

6-8 hard boiled eggs, cut in half, yolks and whites separated
½ cup mayonnaise
½ – 1 ounce knob of cream cheese
½ teaspoon Dijon mustard
1/4 teaspoon smoked paprika (or regular)
½ teaspoon salt (I used a bit of smoked sea salt, too)
½ teaspoon cider vinegar
2 tablespoons minced chives
small squirt of Sriracha (or other hot sauce)
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
pinch of chipotle powder (or cayenne)

Mash the mayonnaise into the cream cheese. Add the egg yolks and the remaining ingredients and mash well. If the mixture is too dry, add another spoonful of mayonnaise. Taste to correct seasonings (be generous with the salt). Spoon the mixture into the egg whites. Sprinkle generously with more smoked paprika and/or chives. Eat immediately or refrigerate for later.

PS This week’s Kitchen Chronicles: in the midst of chaos.

This same time, years previous: things that go on around here, learning (finally!) to manage money, I lost the bet, Mr. Handsome is a goofball and I have the pictures to prove it

We had just eaten supper and I wanted to go on a walk.

But not really, because I was bleary-eyed tired. I had been up since 2 o’clock that morning when I was urgently awakened by the sound of my husband hurtling down the hallway, hiss-yelling at me to RUN and COME HELP.

I stumble-leaped out of bed, my not-yet-awake brain only half-registering some yucky gagging sounds. Slowly it dawned on me that someone was puking, and I yanked a towel off the bathroom rack as I staggered by. When I got to the scene of the disaster, I found my husband perched on the edge of the bed where he was helping to steady my son’s cupped (and full) hands.

That’s how my day started and that’s why I was tired.

But last night Sick Boy was knocked out on the sofa and the two older kids had gone with my parents to their house for a couple days, so it seemed a shame to not take advantage of the relative freedom and go for my walk. I knew the fresh air would do me good, but I was afraid the exertion would do me in. I couldn’t make up my mind.

And then Sweetsie asked if she might come along.

I almost never let my kids go for walks with me. After all, the point is to move fast, get a break, and think. This time around, however, I didn’t need any of that, so I said yes.

“Can I bring my basket and pick some flowers?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said. “And I’ll bring my camera.”

And so last night’s walk was different. We took it slow. We looked for flowers, watched the calves play tag, and spied a rabbit.

When she asked if she could take some pictures, I handed over the camera.

I watched as she stopped in the middle of the dirt road, her basket of pretty weeds slung over her arm, the heavy camera pressed up against her face. She was so excited to be taking pictures like her mama does. I feasted my eyes on her, my little growing-up girl.

She took pictures of the sky and used words like “clouds of smoke” and “dusty waves” to describe it. I rolled her phrases around in my head to try to fix them there, but even so, her exact wording slipped away.

It was a sweet time, our walk together. This often-prickly child of mine skipped gaily, exactly like children do in the storybooks, and chattered nonstop, asking questions and making observations. I followed her lead and kept the conversation light, though I did do some gentle probing on some deeper subjects.

We walked a mile before I suggested we turn back. She would have liked to keep going, but the wind had a bite to it and it was getting dark, so home we went.

This same time, years previous: new territory: grief, peanut butter frosting