Late Sunday afternoon, my whole family—or those of us who are living on our local “commune” (we missed you, Little Bro et al!)—got together for a doggy roast.
We sat in the shade of the giant evergreens on the grassy hill in my brother’s backyard, and roasted hot dogs and ate not-quite-cooked-all-the-way potato salad (from yours truly) and spinach salad and weird pickles (again, from me). Along with everything else she contributed, my sister-in-law cracked open a jar of pickled onions with cilantro that totally rocked my dog. Why have I not done this before? And there was ice cream, too, of course.
We lolled about on our blankets and teetering-over lawn chairs and talked about mortgages and dentists and retirement accounts (we’re an exciting bunch) while the kids blew bubbles, rode trikes and bikes, bugged us, picked peas from the garden, and jumped over bushes they weren’t supposed to jump over.
My older son hung out with the adults the entire time, but my older daughter disappeared into the car with a book. After a while I called her back over and gave her orders to “be sociable.” She complied for a bit, but soon sidled off to read again. Does this mean she’s officially a bookworm? I think yes.
Just after sunset, we hurried home to do the first strawberry picking. I hulled the berries at the kitchen sink while the kids (and Papa!) played a made-up game of trampoline dodgeball in the early dark.