I read bunches of stuff on the internet, some of it informative, some of it entertaining, some of it so-so, some of it brilliant. Lately I’ve come across a couple things worth sharing.

First up, Glennon. Do you know her? I didn’t until last week and then I promptly fell in love with her. It’s her writing, her honesty, her humor—I stayed up late one night just soaking it all in.

It was through Glennon that I got introduced to The Bloggess. (This is the second point.) I’ve known about the bloggess for ages, but I never really read her. I still may not read her regularly, but you have got to, simply MUST, read her chicken story. I SO need to get myself a chicken made out of metal drums.

That I can enjoy both down-and-dirty bloggers like the bloggess (she’s a little crass) and intentional, steady, the-earth-is-our-mother bloggers like SouleMama intrigues me. I respect the latter very much, especially the respectful sweetness with which she depicts their marriage. But me and my husband are much more like the former, all angst and metal chickens. So I read both blogs, ponder and snort, and then go about my life (while keeping one eye peeled for a large metal chicken to haul into battle with me).

(That wasn’t really a point.)

The third thing I’ve found is this little gem of a post by Swonderland. It’s about time and aging, and she says it all perfectly. I wish I wrote it.

Fourth and Fifth, Luisa made my roasted corn dish. It’s not really mine (I found it in Bon Appetit), but because I made it first I own it a little more than she does, I like to think. (Oh? That’s not how it works? Well, okay then . You win.) And upon my recommendation Sarah read Life of Pi and liked it and if you haven’t read it yet you should. (Also, she posted this quote by Carl Frederick Buechner, “They may forget what you said, but they will never forget how you made them feel.” I’m not sure if I should be relieved or worried.)

Sixth, this little video of Elizabeth Gilbert lecturing on genius and creativity is a good one. If you have an artistic side (and most people do, I think), you’ll welcome the twenty minutes of enlightenment.

Seventh, a quote from Misha Leigh’s blog.

I have a friend who talks about how we live our life in teaspoonfuls instead of big drinks. We often are so thirsty for the big gulps, she says, that we miss the perfect teaspoons of joy right there in front of us.

She said to me that she thinks this is the way love works, too. We wish it would work instant miracles and create dramatic change – but instead love tends to chip away tiny bits of change at a time. And if we hang in there long enough, and celebrate the teaspoonfuls, eventually, sometimes, we do sometimes see some big redemptions.

I get impatient with all the little teaspoons that make up my day. I like big action, big talk, big taste, big happiness. Yet my life is made up of hundreds of these teaspoons of joy. Hundreds, people. And I have the gall to get impatient with them? I have so much to learn.

This same time, years previous: peach cornmeal cobbler and fresh peach ice cream, tomato and red wine sauce, vegetable beef soup, mustard eggs, and Russian pancakes

Me and my camera got all sorts of close and cuddly this weekend (and beyond). Here are some of the things we observed together.

*This picture cracks me up.

It’s the pants.

I took the picture without evening noticing, and then when I was uploading (downloading, transferring, whatever) my pictures, I saw the obvious and about peed myself. One kid wearing cut off sweats and the other two kids each wearing one of the pink cast off legs…on their heads. While playing with chicks.

It is a perfect depiction of my children. This is who they are.

You know how people joke about all the therapy their kids will need as a result of having been raised by such inept fools as themselves? I’ve come to believe the joke has it backwards. It’s the parents who will need the therapy once the kids leave home. Especially if their kids are the type to wear pink pant legs on their heads while playing with chicks.

*I’ve been feeding my kids fluffernutter sandwiches and am now a saint in their little blue eyes.

I bought the goopy poison to make a hot fudge sauce (I was not wowed) and then we had leftover hot dog buns and, well, happiness happened.

There was also tabbouleh (so the fluffernutter naysayers among you don’t totally freak out).

My husband didn’t like it. In fact, he took one bite and immediately sprinted to the sink to spit.

“It tastes like parsley!” he said disgustedly.

“That’s ‘cause it is, m’dear,” I chirped sweetly.

And then I got to eat the whole batch all by myself, yum.

*On Saturday, there was a morning birthday breakfast for a dear friend.

I drank way too much coffee but the buzz was worth the headache I got later. (‘Cause there’s pills for that, you know.)

*Also on Saturday, my parents closed on their thirteen acre property that’s just two measly miles from our house! And then they immediately turned into boxcar children who done did growed up.

They’ve been clearing the land via scythe (my dad) and machete (my mom!). They set up a tent, built a fire pit, and made a sorry failure of a latrine. They even skipped church on Sunday. “I’ll be going to the Church of the Roaring Saw,” my dad said.

Ground breaking for their hut is scheduled to start next summer. Or maybe the next, depending. But if I had my druthers, it’d be tomorrow. Or yesterday.

*My mother told the story of the crooked mouth family to my baby.

He hung on her every word, quietly and unknowingly imitating her mouth contortions.

This blurry picture, the closing shot of the story, sums up perfectly why I can’t wait for my parents to move here.

*This child filled the tub and then went swimming in it. Totally not allowed.

But it happened anyway. Obviously.

And then she got her grandaddy to brush her hair.

*I’ve been steadily storing up my red raspberries, to the tune of an ample quart every other day.

It doesn’t sound like much, but it adds up sho’ nuff.

*While I was picking this morning’s berries, the two littles mucked it up real good.

We’ve had two delicious rains and the ditch that the kids and the Fresh Air girl dug together got right puddly. I told the kids they could play in it as long as they didn’t get too muddy.

What a stupid thing to say.

I ignored them while they made muck cakes and muck ponds and muck muck, only periodically muttering stuff like, “Not in the hair,” and, “I’d rather you didn’t sit down.” But I knew I was in real trouble when I heard them talking about sunblock, as in, “Here, you need some more sunblock on your legs…”

They needed two baths after that—one outside and one inside. Geesh.

*Today was salsa day, three big old batches of the stuff.

The kids worked right along with me. In fact, I didn’t have to chop any of the tomatoes myself.

And that, my friends, is what I call progress.

Over and out.

This same time, years previous: washing machine worship and other miscellany, apples