In spite of all my cocky talk about embracing the heat and yadda yadda yadda, the truth is, I’m slowly dying a thousand deaths, in the form of melting.

In fact, this is not really me writing this because I am just one big puddle on the floor. The kids slip on me every time they walk into the kitchen.

I keep reminding myself that this was the norm when we lived in Managua. We were sticky sweaty all the time. Even sleeping was painful. And I was 9-months pregnant to boot. (Well, not for the whole three years. Just, you know, one month. BUT IT FELT LIKE YEARS.)

But it’s really hard—nay, nearly impossible—to stay in the right frame of mind for three consecutive minutes, let alone hours, when the heat just won’t let up.

So I forgave myself the error of my moping ways and made more popsicles and a crunchy-yummy salad.

I got a cold bath in the middle of the morning. And I read about steamed puddings while I soaked. (Why is it that I’m attracted to foods that require excessive steaming and baking when we’re in the middle of a heat wave? It’s entirely unreasonable.)

And then I fixed yet another half gallon of cucumber lemon water because it is my new best friend and I love it to pieces.

Or droplets.
Or swallows.
Or…something.

To make a new best friend for yourself (don’t you wish relationships were so simple?), slice a smallish cucumber and half a lemon into the bottom of a large jar, top it off with water, and let it soak for a couple hours before pouring it into ice-filled glasses.

It’s unbelievably refreshing! It tastes of cucumbers—the crisp green crunchiness of them—and the faint tart-pucker of sweet lemons. And whether or not you knew it before, those are the exact flavors you crave in hot weather.

And one more thing: it is going to feel soooo good when this hot weather breaks. So go sip your cucumber lemon water and think on that and all your problems will slowly melt away.

So says the puddle on the floor that is me.

Cucumber Lemon Water
Adapted from Zoe’s blog Whole Eats & Whole Treats

1 5-inch(-ish) cucumber, washed, unpeeled, and thinly sliced
½ lemon, thinly sliced
2 quarts cold water

Put everything in a large pitcher and let sit for two hours before pouring into ice-filled glasses.

You can get a couple uses out of the cucumbers and lemons (though I’ve only refilled the jar once, myself): simply refill the jar with water and soak for a couple more hours before serving.

My eyes aren’t quite open yet. I was up till a little after 11:00 last night, watching the marathon movie otherwise known as Sybil—3 hours and 6 minutes of child abuse and the resulting multiple personalities. Sally Fields does a phenomenal job, and while I loved the movie (as much as you can love something that disturbing), I spent a good portion of it with a dishtowel over my head and—at one loooong point—with my fingers in my ears.

So then, of course, I couldn’t sleep till about midnight because I was thinking of all my schizophrenic behaviors and what would it be like to give the Church Me one name, the Furious At My Kids Me another, the Happy In My Kitchen Me yet another, and so on. It was both an enchanting and disturbing thought.

And then when I finally did doze off, I was almost immediately awakened by our outside black cat meowing at the top of his lungs in our bedroom doorway. (If any of you have seen the movie, you’ll recall the loud meowing cat scenes and headless cat drawings, yikes.) A screen had fallen out of a downstairs window earlier that day and I had forgotten to close the window.

Then I couldn’t fall back asleep for another hour because of the blasted heat…

So that’s why my eyes are at half-mast this morning.

This same time, years previous: a free-wheeling education

First of all, give up. It’s impossible. You’re going to get a little moist no matter what you do.

Once you’ve embraced the new stinky sweaty you, the sky’s the limit. You can crank up the oven and bake your way into a coma. You can wear stretchy pants, a shirt-like sports bra, and a skin-tight tank top and belly dance your heart out. You can dig potatoes under the blistering sun, hold a hot laptop on your lap, and drive around in a sweltering car and none of it matters any more because you’ve come to accept the truth that: IT’S HOLY COW FREAKIN’ HOT, MAN!

But there are a few things you can do to alleviate the suffering.

For the out-in-the-sun-all-day worker man, pack some chocolate in his lunch, along with some leftover green smoothie, cool applesauce, and salty tortilla chips. And on the evening before the day that the forecasters have been yakking about all week, when it’s supposed to bump 100 degrees with a heat index of 115 and the worker man is scheduled to be tearing off a roof all day long, do a little research about homemade electrolyte drinks and make one for the poor dude. Make it sour and salty and then call him repeatedly to remind him to drink it all, even if he thinks “it’s rather harsh.” (When he says “harsh,” giggle evil-y in his ear and then sternly command him to drink it or else.)

Get up early and do a quick garden run pre-coffee to dump water on the suffering plants and collect a couple handful of ripe goodies.

Cook up a storm. If you move fast enough, you make a breeze.

At noon, close the kitchen blinds.

After lunch, send the kids to rest time (and try not to feel too guilty about banning them to their steamy upstairs rooms) and plunk your bum down on the sofa under the whirring ceiling fan, a glass of iced coffee leaving vigorous sweat puddles on the end table beside you.

Late afternoon decide you’ve had enough of this “embrace the heat” junk and take everyone to the pool.

Stay in your swimming suit for the rest of the evening.

Serve chips and dips for supper. Make popsicles for the next day’s snack while the half-sick-from-heat exhaustion worker man washes a mountain of dishes.

Give the kids hose-baths on the deck. Give yourself one, too, while you’re at it.

While the half-dead worker man reads bedtime stories, go upstairs to take another bath. This is the most special bath of the day because you will soak in cold water and turn into a burny-cold human popsicle. First run cool water into the tub and ease your body into it. It should be cold enough that you flinch, but not so cold you freak out. When your legs start to adjust to the cool water, go hardcore—all cold water. As you leisurely bathe yourself, your feet will get colder and colder and colder. Sponge water down your back and shiver deliciously. If you have extra time, the whole experience is improved upon by the addition of some Epsom salts, a good book, and a glass of white wine.

Go back downstairs and sit in a darkened house on the sofa beside the almost-zonked-out worker man. Hoist your swollen left foot, the one that thinks you’re permanently pregnant, on his lap and beg that he rub it. Whine a little, if need be.

Then read a book. Or write a blog post. Whatevs.

Today I’m also over at The Domestic Fringe where I’m writing about beet salad. Come say hi!