All day long—all the time, really—I’m bombarded with ideas. There’s the slew of NPR shows I like to listen to when I have a morning in the kitchen. There are the blogs, Facebook articles, and magazines. There are the books. There are the sermons, classes, and conversations.

So many ideas, so many thoughts. Some of them lap at my brain like the ocean tickles a sunbather’s toes, but others are like giant waves, begging to be played in. Most of the time, I stay on metaphorical dry ground, enjoying the crashing wetness from the safety of my towel. Once in a while, I turn playful, jumping into the foamy spray, yelling and getting soaked. Rarely do I actually make something of the waves (that are actually ideas). Which, to carry this analogy through, I guess would be … a friendship with pod of dolphins? A meal from seaweed? A driftwood couch? Homemade sea salt?

Whatever.

The point is, I do a lot more input than output, idea-wise. Sometimes I feel like I’m missing out by not fully processing—making something of—all the ideas at my disposal.

Not that all my reflections are worth expounding upon, of course. For example, take the eggs. Just this morning I read about someone’s intense gratefulness and delight over the deliciousness of bright-yellow, homegrown chicken eggs, and I thought:

Bah. There’s not that much special about homegrown chicken eggs. I can’t taste a huge difference. Besides, eggs aren’t really my thing. I mean, I like ‘em, but I prefer the buttered toast that’s served up alongside.


And what’s so great about homegrown stuff anyway? The cherry tomatoes from Costco were far tastier then the red ones we grew. WHICH ARE NOW ROTTING IN THE GARDEN BECAUSE I DON’T CARE. In fact, I’m EAGER for them to rot themselves into oblivion so I’ll have an excuse to eat store-bought cherry tomatoes again SO SUE ME. 


Sure, homegrown food tastes better (usually, ha), but many times, the difference is all in the head. The brain part of the head, not the tongue part.

(I do believe I just handed over my credentials as a gardener and food blogger. I should probably be impeached or something.)

See what I mean? All this from one measly phrase about eggs.

It’s probably best I don’t detail all my reflections. Still, I’d like to push myself to think things through just a little more thoroughly. Package it up presentable-like.

Unlike this post which my husband says makes no sense whatsoever. But I’m posting it anyway because it’s all I’ve got.

This same time, years previous: atop the ruins, on not rushing it, chocolate malted milk frosting, and my new favorite fruit.

This same time, years previous: tomato jam, basic oatmeal muffins, earthy ponderations, part three, homemade butter, and starting a new baby.

Last night in bed, my husband and I discussed what we should do for our anniversary. Culture tells us that anniv celebrations are big stuff. Gotta keep the flame alive! Be playful! Take a break from routine! Say nice things! Have heart-to-heart conversation! Reminisce! Dream! Hold hands!

So, “What about going out to eat?” I suggested. But eating in public—doing anything in public, really—brings out the awkward in my husband, and it’s not fun to spend money on someone else’s cooking while feeling awkward.

Next suggestion: we could see a movie? But then we’d have to arrange child care. And get there. And spend a couple hours sitting in the dark smelling chemical-drenched popcorn and staring at a crazy-huge flickering screen. So nah.

Him: Did you buy me a gift?

Me: No. Did you buy me a gift?

Him: No.

We laughed at our pathetically predictable selves, said goodnight, and flipped away from each other into our respective sleep positions—me: face-down to the left; him: face-down to the right.

This morning we ran the loop together. Which was actually a perfect anniversary-type activity since we first got to know each other during sweaty, early-morning runs through various San Antonio missions. This morning—eighteen years, four children, and many adventures later—our younger son was up and begging to come along so we let him trail us on his too-small dirt bike with mismatched wheels. As we huff-huffed along, he kept up a running commentary of all the sights and sang snatches of song. It was like having a portable boom box, but cuter.

Then there was the Sunday morning rush out the door, the time spent among friends, the extra child come to spend the afternoon, a cobbled-together lunch of corncakes, bacon, and watermelon, and the stack of dishes from both breakfast and lunch that my husband and I washed together. Sundays are the kids’ day off from dishwashing, so while they scatter to their assigned rest-time space, we swish suds and wipe down surfaces while recounting all the bits of juicy church gossip.

Today we lucked out with afternoon naps that included actual sleep, followed by writing time for me and fencing-with-large-machinery for him. Later there will be popcorn, apples, and a movie, all six of us smushed together on our close-to-breaking couch.

So about that special date we should be on? I think we already are.

This same time, years previous: he got me, 16, coming up for air, fourteen years, stewed tomatoes, and so why did I marry him?